


Running Low On Am(m)o

by JayEz



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 04, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assassin Mary, Bisexual John Watson, Closeted John Watson, Episode Fix-It: s04e01 The Six Thatchers, Extended Mind Palace (EMP), Fix-It, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, John Watson vs. the Media, M/M, Miscommunication, On Hiatus, Past James Sholto/John Watson, Slow Build, The Final Problem fix-it, Villain Mary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-17 23:52:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9352052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayEz/pseuds/JayEz
Summary: A carpeted hall leads John towards Sherlock’s voice – yet his relief is short-lived, shattered by the sight of a black-clad figure pointing a gun at Sherlock’s chest, Magnussen kneeling at their feet.A shot rings out.John’s finger is already on the trigger.*In which John incapacitates the shooter in CAM Tower before realising it's Mary, Sherlock lapses into a coma for several days, and Mycroft is playing a very dangerous game that will affect not only national security, but also the lives of the detective and his blogger in ways they yet fail to see.An alternate series 4 with eventual Johnlock, featuring villain!Mary, closeted bisexual John, and EMP theory.[due to real-life circumstances, all my fanfics are officially on hiatus]





	1. In The Tower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this entire fandom, and especially all TJLCers, because we deserve a better story.
> 
> Beta'd and Brit-picked by the wonderful [Iriya](archiveofourown.org/users/iriya).

That _git_. 

“Sherlock!” John calls, but it’s no use. 

John watches him dash across the room and up the staircase to the second level of Magnussen’s office. 

Meanwhile, Janine remains unresponsive. 

The wound on her temple speaks of blunt force trauma – most likely the butt of a gun. John spares the white supremacist another glance, noting the expertly executed shot with a sinking feeling. The bulge below the fabric of the man's jacket, courtesy of a service weapon, draws his eyes. 

Decision made, John places Janine in recovery position, then removes the Walther PPK from the security guard’s holster and follows his best friend. 

A carpeted hall leads John towards Sherlock’s voice – yet his relief is short-lived, shattered by the sight of a black-clad figure pointing a gun at Sherlock’s chest, Magnussen kneeling at their feet. 

A shot rings out. 

John’s finger is already on the trigger. 

The first bullet rips into the person’s – the woman’s hand, making her drop the gun, the second hits their right knee. Surprise coupled with pain brings her down with a grunt of agony. John is on her a heartbeat later, pushing her right shoulder towards the ground with one hand and pressing down with his entire body weight. Her evasive manoeuvres speak of expert training but what John lacks in technique he makes up in for in pure anger. 

Applying pressure to the mangled hand and knee make her choke out a cry but John’s attention shifts to Sherlock’s still form on the floor next to him. No blood – no exit wound. Good. 

“Call an ambulance!” he bellows at Magnussen. “Tell them there’s a GSW to the chest, three additional wounded, the shooter among them.”

For some reason, the man’s lips are twitching but he moves towards the phone on his desk. 

Magnussen's voice fills the otherwise silent room. John’s heart beats a steady rhythm against his ribs despite his racing thoughts. 

“John, please.”

Only years of experience keep John on top of the assailant. He knows that voice. He hears it every day. 

He tears his eye from his best friend to the person’s face underneath him. The beanie is hiding her blonde hair but her features are unmistakable. 

_Mary._

“I won’t run, John, I promise, just please, let me up, love. Please.”

He almost complies. 

“Why,” is what he says. He’s not even sure if he’s asking why he should let her up or why she shot Sherlock or why she broke into CAM Tower, all thoughts blurring into one another in his mind. 

“I can explain, love, just,” a gasp, tears in her eyes, “let me up. My hand, it needs –”

“Ambulance is on its way,” Magnussen interrupts. He sounds much too amused. 

“Apply pressure to the wound,” John orders, his tone brooking no argument. 

Magnussen remains rooted to the spot. 

_“Move.”_

The man kneels at Sherlock’s side and follows John’s instructions. It’s easier to focus on simple first aid, on his best friend maybe dying from internal injuries, than it is to think about why his wife is currently struggling against his hold. 

“My stomach, John, the baby –”

A faint voice whispers inside his head that he’s being manipulated – but he also knows miscarriage statistics. He removes his left hand from where he was pressing both her wrists into her back at a taunt angle and shifts his legs to take the pressure off the damaged knee. 

“I’m still armed,” he growls, then rolls to his feet. 

He quickly kicks the other gun across the floor, silencer and speckles of blood included, before gesturing at Magnussen to let John take over pressing Sherlock’s scarf against the entry wound. 

His eyes never leave his wife. 

The sight of Mary turning on the floor, clad in what looks like black Velcro, ripping off her beanie and gazing up at him with pleading eyes, is the most surreal thing that has ever happened to him. There are several minutes left before the ambulance will arrive at the Tower. Time for answers. 

“Why are you here?”

Mary draws a wet breath. “Please, John. You mustn’t make me tell you.”

“Why,” he repeats, harsher. 

“I love you.”

John feels his jaw clench. Three words have never hurt this much. He glances down to check the faint rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest is still there. 

“She’s so wicked, Dr Watson. I can really see why you like her.”

He snaps around to Magnussen. The man is leaning back against his desk as if he is watching a fascinating programme on the telly. 

“Don’t you dare –” Mary begins, but Magnussen talks over her. 

“All those wet jobs for the CIA. Never fell for one of her marks then… but that was before she went freelance.” Magnussen pauses theatrically, looking away from John and onto Mary. “He promised to set you free after, I assume.”

“You know nothing!”

The implications of Magnussen’s words register, but it’s like looking through tainted glass – he gets only an impression. John stares at whom he thought is the person he will spend the rest of his life with, and what he sees doesn’t make sense. 

“What have I ever done, hmm,” John eventually manages to say, “my whole life ... to deserve you?”

Mary swallows. “It didn’t even take a month and you were running off to storm a drug den with a tire iron. You’re best friends with a sociopath. You’re a doctor who never came back from the war.”

Her eyes flicker down to Sherlock and something in John breaks. 

“You weren’t supposed to be like that.”

“You chose me.”

John squeezes his eyes shut. He wants to kick something but he can’t take his hand off the wound, can’t remove the one lifeline he still has left. 

“Did he, now?” Magnussen interrupts again. 

Before John can ask what he means, however, footsteps and the sound of a stretcher announce the arrival of the paramedics.

* 

It’s not the Met who follow Mary’s ambulance and keep John from climbing into the one carrying Sherlock. 

It’s Spooks. 

“You need to be debriefed, Dr Watson.”

“Listen, Anthea, or whatever the hell your name is,” John snaps. “My best friend’s just been shot – your employer's brother – and what I need is to go to hospital.”

The woman doesn’t bat an eye at the volume of his voice, or his tone. “This is a delicate situation.”

“Bloody right it is! My own wife –” He stops, throat suddenly closing up. John takes a breath. 

_A delicate situation._

John’s head jerks up, looking Anthea right in the eye. “He knew.”

No reaction. 

“Mycroft knew about her, didn’t he? Knew about her past.”

“Of course, I didn’t, John. I would have stepped in otherwise.”

The older Holmes comes to a stop at Anthea’s level, far enough away from him. Mycroft can surely tell that John is ready to erupt. The flashlights of the handful of reporters already hovering near the police tape only add to his ire. 

Mycroft sends them a disgruntled look. “She was never here. The shooter will remain unidentified until tomorrow and be captured the following day. Mr Magnussen will commend you on your bravery that saved his life, but you are not to mention any of this on your blog.”

John barks a laugh. “Oh, just like that? Where’s my wife, then?”

“We can discuss that during your debrief.” Mycroft’s expression sobers when all John does is glare. “I promise to have you delivered to the hospital long before my brother is out of surgery.”

John feels his hands clench into fists. It’s a good thing they confiscated the gun as evidence. 

“I would not ask if this weren’t necessary, John.”

He is under no illusion that Mycroft could have him whisked off if he continues to refuse. Every second that trickles by is keeping John from Sherlock. 

“Fine,” he eventually spits in Mycroft’s face. 

It strikes him as odd that Mycroft’s shoulders seem to sag in relief, but John’s head is too full to do anything except file it away for later. 

*

John doesn’t remember anything about the car ride to the hospital after the debriefing, or about the hours of waiting. Someone - maybe John himself - must have texted Greg, for he shows up with strong tea shortly before a doctor informs them that Sherlock pulled through. 

John stops pacing. He knows that tone, has used it on family and friends before. 

“But?”

“I’m afraid Mr Holmes has lapsed into a coma.” 

*

Greg stays, even makes a crack about taking a photo for the lads at the precinct that John chuckles over, but asks too many questions John doesn’t want to think about. 

“The Met got bumped from the case, right off the bat. Dimmock was griping about it when I got your text, said the Box had taken over. Could have made his career, case like that. So no clue? No idea who shot him?” 

John says nothing.

Greg eventually gets the message. “You want me to leave?”

John doesn’t need to think before shaking his head. Being alone with his thoughts wouldn’t end well. 

“Magnussen is in possession of information on Mary Watson’s past. He taunted her, which prompted tonight’s events.”

“What past?”

The way Mycroft hesitated will forever be burnt into John’s memory.

 _“WHAT PAST?”_

His hand still throbs faintly from where he slammed it onto the table. Whatever mercy the older Holmes thought ignorance would be, John still doesn’t know. 

“Mary Morstan is one of many aliases that have been matched to Gabrielle Ashdown, a former CIA operative who went rogue five years ago. She has been connected with seven assassinations, four terrorist attacks and several smaller heists. The reasons for her presence in your life are as of yet unclear.”

“You’re lying. Magnussen knows.”

“Magnussen was not inclined to share. Maybe she fell in love.”

Love. 

The word tastes like ash on John’s tongue. 

“How about a sandwich?” Greg asks, bringing him back to the present. “You’ve got to be running on empty.”

All John manages is a shrug, but it seems to satisfy Greg. The door clicks shut behind him. 

John’s bladder is what forces him to get up. When he returns to the room, the sight of Sherlock’s pale, too-thin body hits John like a punch in the gut. He steps closer despite how much it hurts. The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor is proof that the person who saved his life is still there. 

The question only is for how long that will be the case. 

A sob rises in John’s throat. He forces it down again, yet his feet move without consulting his brain first, bringing him closer to Sherlock’s side. 

It’s been too long already. Every passing minute reduces the chance of him waking up. 

John reaches out, gripping Sherlock’s slack fingers with his own. 

“Don’t do this to me, Sherlock,” he whispers desperately. “Not again. You can’t fake this.” 

This time, though, Sherlock won’t be able to say, “I heard you”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know where the characters and I are taking this, though update frequency is dependent on my Muse and RL schedule. I just needed to get this out today, after that episode... 
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments <3


	2. Cracks in the wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thank you all for the kudos, comments and bookmarks! It's great to see this so well received, it's an immense motivational boost :)
> 
> Canon quotes are taken from Arianne DeVere’s [transcripts](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/tag/transcript). 
> 
> PS: Some knowledge of The Six Thatchers is required for this chapter.

They force John to go home before MI5 leaks the identity of the fake shooter. 

Apparently Mrs Hudson has been making tea for the journalists camped out in front of 221B since yesterday, so John reluctantly goes back to the suburbs where every item reminds him of Mary. He opens a bottle of whiskey that Mike sent along for the wedding and drinks it in the dark hallway until he reckons he might give sleep a try and win. 

Nightmares wake him before the sun rises. 

He cycles back to hospital. Takes up residence in the chair next to Sherlock’s bed. It’s far from comfortable, but John doesn’t care. 

Mycroft enters the room hours later, looking as though he didn’t sleep at all. He is also carrying a brown paper bag. 

“What’s that?”

“Breakfast.”

John blinks. “Breakfast?”

“The first meal of the day.”

“That doesn’t explain why you’re holding it.”

Mycroft heaves a sigh. “As a doctor such as yourself should know, human beings require regular sustenance to function. I cannot have you faint in sight of cameras or gossiping nurses, John.”

“Ruin your fairy tale, would it?”

“As far as the public is concerned, you and Mary are both visiting my brother together. Being spotted on your own would call into question what I have so delicately planned.”

“And we couldn’t have that, could we,” John snorts. He’s too tired to be genuinely ticked off and, now that the smell of porridge fills his nose, also rather hungry. 

They eat in tense silence. Mycroft spooning porridge from a plastic pot should amuse him, but not being able to laugh about it with Sherlock somehow takes away the appeal. John keeps hoping some of the food will stain Mycroft’s bespoke suit, but the man is as meticulous about handling cutlery as he is about his job. 

“I have an update on your wife,” Mycroft announces afterwards. “While she will regain full range of motion in her knee, she will never move her thumb again. She also refuses to talk.”

“Ask Magnussen, then.”

“We’re working on it.” 

John narrows his eyes. “He’s not cooperating?”

Mycroft’s lips press together in a thin line. His posture is stiff. John recalls what he knows about the other man, thinks back on the smug demeanour during the aftermath of the shooting, and something clicks. 

“He wants something in return. Information?”

Mycroft huffs, but reluctantly admits, “He hasn’t made demands. Magnussen enjoys the power that comes with the unequal distribution of information. We will find a way.”

“Like you found a way with Moriarty?” It comes out like a snarl, and John belatedly realises how angry he is. “What’s the plan this time, hm? More family secrets you can trade?”

Mycroft’s gaze takes on a dangerous glint all of a sudden, though his voice remains calm. John keeps his shoulders squared, refusing to back down. 

“Magnussen is impeding a federal investigation. If he continues, we will have grounds for a warrant. We can seize the Appledore vaults.”

“Then get on with it.”

“You seem to be operating under the illusion that you wield any kind of power over my person, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft sneers. “I do not, in fact, answer to you.”

John gives him a dark look, then returns his attention to Sherlock. The heart monitor is beeping steadily, a soothing rhythm that assures John there is still hope. 

Mycroft must have deduced his thoughts from the downturn of his lips, for he says, “My brother has endured much worse in his life – some of it self-inflicted, admittedly – yet he has always emerged unscathed on the other end. There is no reason to assume this time will break the pattern.”

John snorts. “You lot really need to work on your bedside manner.”

The older Holmes rises from the second chair, buttoning up his jacket. He doesn’t give a verbal goodbye, but he does tilt his head in parting. John returns it and watches the man leave the room. 

“Your brother’s a right wanker,” he tells Sherlock. “But you probably know that already.”

Sherlock’s heart rate spikes. 

John startles, is next to the bed a second later, but there is no further reaction from his best friend. When it dawns on him that he’s been an idiot – there is conclusive evidence that talking to coma patients affects them in a positive manner – he almost kicks the bed. 

“I’m not good at this stuff, Sherlock, so I’m going to read you something,” he announces. 

He doesn’t have a book with him and while there might be a small collection somewhere in this hospital, it strikes him as a tad impersonal. So John produces his phone, goes to his blog, and starts reading from the beginning. 

*

Molly Hooper drops by to whisk him away for a bland dinner in the hospital mess. 

“The detective said you wouldn’t go on your own,” she admits, eyes darting back and forth between him and Sherlock. 

“Lestrade?”

“He came for a post-mortem. Uh, for the report, not – he, he’s fine.”

Her stammering makes John smile. Later, after remembering how good it feels to stretch his legs, Molly surprises him a second time by retrieving a book from her bag. The author, M. R. James, isn’t familiar, and when Molly explains it is Victorian gothic fiction, a ghost story, John knows the reason for that. 

“You think he’ll hate it enough to wake up and tell you to stop?” he jokes. 

Molly blushes, but doesn’t comment otherwise. 

*

One of Magnussen’s papers boasts a three page spread on the shooting, identifying John as the hero who saved Magnussen’s life. The mob of photographers has now taken up residence near John’s home in the suburbs, so he goes back to Baker Street where he helps Mrs Hudson with her Sudoku in a desperate attempt to distract the woman. 

Well, and maybe also himself. 

The following day, it is Janine’s face that is plastered across the tabloid front pages. John empties the whiskey that night, rubbing his shoulder for long minutes without noticing in the dimly lit hallway of his house.

 _HE MADE ME WEAR THE HAT_ , the headline read. John only knows because Janine came for a visit. She never saw him but he heard her faintly through from his position outside the door, calling the still comatose Sherlock a bastard and murmuring something about saving it for marriage. 

John wishes he could delete the memory, but his mind doesn’t work like Sherlock’s. Instead, he can’t stop turning it over and over and over in his head no matter how big a gulp he takes from the whiskey tumbler. It inevitably leads him down memory lane, to Janine coming out of Sherlock’s bedroom, calling him ‘Sherl’ and moving the coffee to where it makes no bloody sense whatsoever. 

He empties the bottle. Harry would be proud. Or she would have been, that last time he talked to her, unmistakable sounds of partying in the background, her vowels slurring together. 

If their father could see them now. 

The ring of his doorbell pulls John off that train of thought. 

He sets down the bottle on the living room table on his way to the front door. The clock says it’s four in the morning. John spares a thought to his gun, securely locked in the safe behind the print of Freddie Mercury, but reckons that any threat to him wouldn’t have the courtesy of announcing their presence. 

Opening the door reveals Mycroft, umbrella in hand. 

“Should’ve got the gun after all,” John chuckles. 

Mycroft scowls at him. “You’re inebriated.”

“If that’s toff speak for pissed, then yeah.” John steps back into the hall to let the man enter. “I’d offer you some, but I finished it all.”

“Shame. Here I was hoping we could toast your wife’s escape and plait each other’s hair over cake.” 

John almost stumbles from how fast his muscles tense up. “You let her escape?”

“Oh yes,” Mycroft sneers. “Obviously I let an infamous assassin simply walk out of her cell.”

“How?”

“Outside help. MI5 is investigating.”

John’s hand clenches. “The baby.”

“I’m afraid at thirteen weeks pregnant, she didn’t have any choice but to take it with her.”

“Don’t get smart with me, Mycroft,” John snaps. “This is your fault.”

“Oh?”

The mocking tone only infuriates John further. “You should have known. You should have warned me.”

Mycroft’s features soften into something worse – pity. “Regret is such a nasty sentiment. Poisons one’s every waking thought. Correct me if I’m wrong, Doctor Watson, but last I checked it takes two willing participants for a wedding.”

John grits his teeth. “She was just a nurse.”

“Now she’s a fugitive.”

“Who’s she working for?”

“How should I know?”

“Don’t patronise me, Mycroft,” John spits. “You’re the British government – you know things.”

“I occupy a minor position –”

“Oh, sod off.”

“A minor position,” Mycroft repeats, now clearly annoyed. “I’m not privy to each and every thread in the global web of criminal masterminds.”

Something about that phrase grabs John’s attention. “Who was her last employer?” he demands. “You must have some intel. Whom was she working for, before –” He can’t finish the sentence. 

“Before she took on the mantle of Mary Morstan and fell in love with a doctor at St Bart’s?”

John makes a dangerous noise at the back of his throat that Mycroft certainly heard. And yet he remains quiet. 

“Well?”

Heaving a sigh, Mycroft places his umbrella on the kitchen counter next to John’s empty tumbler. He isn’t wearing a coat, or else he probably would have removed it in order to buy some more time. John feels his lip twitch as his chest swells with anger. 

“Intel suggests she was working with the Waters gang.”

The name sounds familiar, but John can’t quite place it. 

“A criminal organisation, believed to be originating from the Waters family in London, spanning the globe. You might recall the series of bank robberies that Detective Inspector Lestrade was investigating.”

“Bank robberies. I thought she was a gun for hire.”

Mycroft looks down his nose at him. “An international crime syndicate has several branches, John. Do keep up.”

“Then bloody tell me what you know!” he shouts, slamming one hand on the table while stepping towards the other man, who jerks back. 

John allows himself to feel smug about that for a second. 

“Fine.” Mycroft meets his eyes almost challengingly. “Before she became your wife, Mary worked as a hit woman for the Waters gang. Her reputation was stellar. She’s an expert at equipment interference but she made a mistake and caused the death of a member of the immediate family. She somehow faked her death to get them off her back and hid in plain sight under a new alias. It seems to me that she wished to leave her old life behind.”

John doesn’t ask if that means she really loved him. Not that it matters much, now – she lied to him, about everything. That’s not love, not by John’s definition of the word. 

He licks his lips and tries to focus on the problem at hand. Something Mary said months ago echoes in his mind. 

“She would have needed help. A confidante. To fake her death, I mean. Like Sherlock,” John adds, unnecessarily. Seeing Mycroft grimace at the reminder makes it worth it, though. “Who?”

“Who, indeed, Doctor Watson.”

Something about his tone is off. John narrows his eyes. It must be the alcohol coursing through his blood that motivates the leap his mind makes that moment, for John doubts he would have voiced the thought when sober. It’s beyond ridiculous.

“Moriarty.” 

Mycroft’s face remains blank. 

“He’s dead,” John says. “Blew his brains out.”

“That’s how the situation appears, yes.” 

John huffs, balling his hands into fists. “Listen, you pompous prick. Either you tell me what’s going on, or I’ll introduce that brilliant head of yours to the surface of my kitchen counter.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“I don’t have to ignore the reporters,” John threatens. 

They stare at each other for several minutes. 

“I’ve got all night,” John whispers darkly after a while. As stubborn as the Holmes brothers are, John can out-stubborn them both. Today is no exception. 

“We lack conclusive proof. Everything we have is circumstantial, which is unsurprising given that James Moriarty is the smartest criminal the world has ever encountered. However, we do know that his body was never recovered. Our intelligence agencies have only heard whispers, allusions, code words believed to indicate Moriarty. Yet his survival would explain certain, uh, discrepancies in some instances.”

John takes a minute to process this. Once the implications hit him, he can’t help but laugh. 

He has never seen Mycroft Holmes look this bewildered. 

“They,” John gasps between laughs, “they faked suicides at each other? That’s what you’re telling me? Jesus…” 

“Are you quite finished?”

Maybe it’s the booze, but it takes John another moment to ignore how complete bollocks this situation is, and think back on what they were discussing in the first place. 

It’s Mycroft’s turn to smirk when the memory has John clam up. 

“Moriarty?” John says, his tone low. “Moriarty helped her escape?”

“More than once, it appears.”

“More than…”

It feels like every blood cell in John’s body has been replaced with ice. 

Mycroft steps past him, walks out from behind the kitchen island and crosses the room. He returns with the already open bottle of some red wine Mary bought before the wedding and never was able to finish due to the pregnancy. John hates wine, but Mycroft doesn’t share his aversion. 

He pours it, sniffs it, probably decided that it’ll have to do, then toasts at John and takes a sip. Something vibrates – a phone. Mycroft pulls it from his breast pocket, brow furrowing. 

“I’m afraid England needs me more than you do at the moment.”

It’s not until the older Holmes is almost at the front door that John’s body remembers what it’s supposed to do. 

“Hang on,” he barks. “There’s more, isn’t there? Moriarty doesn’t just help people – he’s not doing it for free. What price did she have to pay?”

“Contrary to your opinion, John,” Mycroft drawls, “I am not omniscient. I have told you everything I am able to tell you tonight. My brother seems to think you possess at least a handful of capable brain cells. Why don’t you put them to use? Or you can continue the family tradition. Your choice, Doctor Watson.”

The door clicks shut with a hint of finality. 

*

John walks. 

At first, it’s to clear his head. Then, to think. When the fog shrouding his vision clears and he finds himself near Bart’s, the first rays of sunshine emerging from the horizon, he finishes the journey his feet began. 

Sherlock looks no different. The world is the same, and still… maybe it’s John who changed. He pulls the visitor chair closer to the bed. If he reached out, he could touch Sherlock’s leg underneath the bedding. John’s fingers twitch, but he keeps them in his lap. 

“Your brother knows more than he’s letting on, that pillock. He’s not sharing. Not now. I’m sure he knows where Mary is, what she’s doing, why…” John laughs, but it’s humourless. “Moriarty. James fucking Moriarty.”

Silence envelopes them. 

John hates it. 

He’d take one of Sherlock’s mad experiments over this any day. When he wakes up, he vows, he’ll never complain again. Vows. A lot of vows got broken this week. 

“I shot my wife,” John says. “But that was… That was different.” He shifts forward, leaning in. His voice drops to a whisper. “But I keep replaying it in my mind… if I’d known… what then? And…” John swallows. There’s a lump in his throat. “I’d do it again. I just wished I’d been there sooner. Three seconds. That would’ve been enough and you wouldn’t… You made a vow, too, you know.”

John recalls every moment of that day in vivid detail, but the final act, the waltz and Sherlock’s speech – his second speech – has an even sharper quality to it. 

“You promised, Sherlock. You made a vow. You said you’d always be there for us.”

He wants to go on but if he does, John knows he’ll start shouting and that would alert the staff that he snuck in before morning rounds. He can’t risk getting banned, not when being here is the only thing in his life that still makes sense. 

*

Moriarty pulls the trigger. 

Sherlock flinches back, eyes widening when all the man does is get up again and worry about his hairstyle.

“Why aren’t you dead?”

“Because it’s not the fall that kills you, Sherlock.” Moriarty’s voice drops to a whisper. “Of all people, you should know that. It’s not the fall. It’s never the fall.”

Moriarty spreads his arms wide as the room trembles. “It’s the landing.”

It all comes back to him with a rush.

*

_“Fall now.”_

_“One little push, and off you pop.”_

_“Nothing hits the spot like revenge for profits.”_

_“No, I’m not gonna use the phone. I just wanna take a video.”_

_“It would break him and I would lose him forever – and, Sherlock, I will never let that happen.”_

_“Forwards, or backwards?”_

_“Because that’s where they sit.”_

_“Oh my God. You’re the sane one, aren’t you?!”_

_“Sherlock Holmes, you are a back-stabbing, heartless, manipulative bastard.”_

_“The problems of your past are your business. The problems of your future are my privilege.”_

_“On which depends the security of the free world, yes… and you’ve got potatoes on it.”_

_“The Appledore vaults are my Mind Palace. You know about Mind Palaces, don’t you, Sherlock?”_

*

Life goes on, the threat of Moriarty a shadow Sherlock can never shake. The grim vicar of death, waiting until Sherlock arrives in Samarra.

*

Sherlock knows Molly is going to send him away the second he lays eyes on her. Even Rosie, propped up on her hip, isn’t looking at him. 

He tries despite of it. “I just… wondered how things were going and… and if there was anything I could do.”

Molly doesn’t reply. Instead, she reaches into the pocket of her trousers, unearthing a piece of paper. 

“It’s, uh, it’s from John.”

Sherlock takes it, feeling his blood run cold. 

“You don’t need to read it now.” Molly hesitates. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. He says… Jo-John said if you were to come round asking after him, offering to help …”

Hope flares in Sherlock’s chest. “Yes?”

“He said he’d ra– … That he’d rather have anyone but you. Anyone.” 

Sherlock blinks. Watches Molly go back into the house. He doesn’t remember the way from the door to the cab. Once tucked into the back seat, he produces the note, unfolding it carefully. 

He stares. It doesn’t make sense. 

_MISS ME?_

John’s handwriting. Not John’s words. 

_– MISS ME? –_

Someone’s words, not Mary’s, on a DVD. 

_– Miss Me? –_

Flashing on every screen in the country.

_– The stage is set. The curtain rises. We’re ready to begin. –_

A whisper in 1895.

_– Yes, well, he’s a very tangible ghost… –_

Pain flaring beneath Sherlock’s scarred skin. 

_\- Peekaboo! –_

Moriarty, at the heart of the conspiracy. 

_\- That was surgery. –_

Mary in a wedding dress, holding a gun.

_– excessively skilled for a nurse –_

Mary on the plane, hacking MI5’s database. 

_– The curtain rises. The last act. It’s not over. –_

John, too late at the aquarium, because of Rosie. 

John, an army doctor, not providing first aid to his dying wife. 

Mary’s shirt, soaked in blood. 

“What does that tell you, Sherlock?” 

He whirls around. Mycroft is standing two metres away from him, half in shadow. They are on a bus. There is no one in the driver’s seat. 

“What does that tell you, Sherlock?” Mycroft repeats. 

“Exit wound,” he gasps. 

“Meaning?”

“Norbury didn’t shoot her.”

“Who then?” Mycroft implores. 

Sherlock has no answer. 

“Who was right behind you? Think, Sherlock!”

Sherlock’s mind recreates the scene. The bus morphs into the darkened room, shades of blue intensifying. Norbury standing there, frozen in time, her gun raised. 

“Your agents.”

Mycroft tsks. “So slow. Not at the aquarium, dear brother.”

“Then what –”

“The tower, Sherlock! The tower!”

The aquarium transforms. Norbury is suddenly Mary, first in a wedding dress, then in all black. Sherlock watches his old self stare at the woman, the mirror behind him, when her gun goes off. 

Phantom pain flares once more, right underneath his the arch of his ribs. 

“Listen,” Mycroft tells him. 

Another two shots ring through the air. 

Another shooter. 

“Who was right behind you, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock’s reality tilts on its axis. His mind supplies the visual, extrapolates the actions taken by the parties in involved. 

“But… he wasn’t there. He didn’t see her. We confronted her. He forgave her.”

_The problems of your future are my privilege._

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “He cheated.”

“It was just texting.”

“How do you know?” Mycroft parries.

“What?”

“That I just texted. How do you know?”

John. John in the doorway, but not in the clothes from that night in CAM tower. A soft smile playing about his lips.

“And my front door’s on the other side of the house, you daft git. You know that, you helped us choose it. And you know the Six Thatchers, too. We solved it already.”

“The plane,” Sherlock tries, but Mycroft cuts him off.

“You’re still in too deep, Sherlock. Didn’t you notice the cracks? The inconsistencies? The gaps in memories?” 

“What happened between our domestic and Christmas?” John challenges, then Mycroft takes over. 

“Why did we hold a D-notice meeting in a conference room with glass walls?”

Sherlock’s head is starting to hurt. Everything is spinning, John transforming into Watson in Victorian garb and back again, layers upon layers all bleeding into one until Sherlock sees it clear as reality – because it _was_ reality.

John shooting the assassin. John shooting his wife, unbeknownst to him, because she was threatening Sherlock.

“Why? Why go so deep? Why extrapolate this?” Sherlock demands of both of them. 

“To solve it,” John replies.

Sherlock's pulse is racing. The answers don’t come. “Solve what?”

“The final problem,” Mary says from the floor. A blink of an eye later, she’s standing next to him, tilting her head. _Reptile like._

Sherlock sees it now. 

Sniper. Liar. Miss me. 

Mary lifts her weapon.

A shot. 

John – at his side, always at his side – lowers his gun. 

“Time to wake up, Sherlock. We’ve got work to do.”

“How?” 

John smirks. Sherlock is distracted by the sight of it, only realises the other man is pushing him back when he feels strong hands against his chest. He wants to grab them, hold on, but his fingers close around nothing. 

He falls and falls, deeper and deeper, into the abyss. 

There is no landing, just the sensation of rough sheets – low thread count, standard-issue hospital supplies, Mycroft didn’t even spring for an upgrade – against his back. The steady beat of monitoring equipment, the smell of antiseptic and… something else. 

Lemongrass. The scent of John’s shampoo. 

Sherlock opens his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excited to hear what you think of this chapter! =) 
> 
> Molly reading Victorian Gothic literature to Sherlock was inspired by [this drabble by gardnerhill](http://gardnerhill.tumblr.com/post/155953256534/is-that-the-best-material-to-read-to-him-molly) on Tumblr. 
> 
> Here is some background reading for those who are interested in the analyses that inspired this:  
> \- Extended Mind Palace (EMP), monikakrasnorada's [masterpost](https://monikakrasnorada.tumblr.com/post/152529110582/emp-edt-masterpost)  
> \- EMP-related thoughts by shadowfax044, [Bleed through from reality](http://shadowfax044.tumblr.com/post/155809574513/emp-theory-im-on-board-now)  
> \- impatient14's EMP [analysis and predictions](http://impatient14.tumblr.com/post/155655656808/comprehensive-emp-analysis-and-predictions)  
> \- My take on The Abominable Bride is heavily reliant on [“Ghost Stories are Gay Stories”](http://heimishtheidealhusband.tumblr.com/post/132151884578/ghost-stories-are-gay-stories), [“The Graveyard Domestic”](http://heimishtheidealhusband.tumblr.com/post/136737345183/the-graveyard-domestic), and [“Thank you, Wilder”](http://heimishtheidealhusband.tumblr.com/post/136521976168/thank-you-wilder) by Heimishtheidealhusband


	3. Emotional Context

Sherlock’s eyes are drawn to where they are always drawn: John. Who, at the moment, is slumped in a chair right next to the hospital bed. 

Deductions are made without conscious decision to do so on Sherlock’s part, though he fathoms he should be glad that his mind didn’t suffer from whatever happened after he fell. He will need to get his hands on his medical records sooner rather than later. 

And yet, curiosity cannot make him look away from John. It feels like a lifetime ago that he saw him, the real him, not some rendering of his subconscious. It is early morning, judging by the sunlight entering the room, but the doctor is fast asleep.

Curious. Something must have happened.

“John?” Sherlock tries and stops immediately, appalled by the croak his voice has become. Swallows. Wets his lips. “John?” 

The man blinks awake, seemingly disoriented. The confusion vanishes a moment later when Sherlock’s state registers, giving way to surprise and then something Sherlock can only describe as relief. 

“Sherlock,” he says. A smile tugs at his lips. “About time.”

 _About time?_ Sherlock brings up a hand to feel his facial hair. Oh. Several day’s worth. 

“Coma?” he asks. 

It startles a laugh out of John as he climbs to his feet. “Course you’d deduce your own medical history, you cock. Yes, you fell into a coma five days ago.”

For the first time, Sherlock looks down his body. A bandage, covering the wound. 

_Oh, Sherlock, if you take one more step, I swear I will kill you._

“You shot her,” he states, and almost wishes he could take it back because John’s face darkens into an expression he never wants to be responsible for putting there ever again.

“Incapacitated.”

“She’s in custody?”

“Was.”

Unfortunate, yet utterly unsurprising. Sherlock hums. Also explains John’s state. 

John squints. “What?”

“Mycroft first,” Sherlock croaks.

John looks like he wants to argue but opts against it. Instead, he produces his phone and sends off a quick text. That John texts instead of calls will annoy Mycroft indefinitely. Sherlock sends John a small smile that the other man returns with a mischievous glint in his eye. It’s almost as though it were all back to normal. 

“Well?” John prompts, and the moment shatters. “Enlighten me.”

Despite everything, the thrill of showing off is too enticing to resist. 

“Fast asleep at this time of the morning – you didn’t get any rest the night before, even though you had a drink – whiskey – like you tend to after a difficult case or losing a patient to help you fall asleep; you showered in the evening rather than the morning since presumably your rhythm has been disturbed, and yet you have engaged in prolonged physical activity today – walking, probably, but it might have been cycling, though to judge that I’d need to take a closer look at your hands. So, something happened to upset you and required processing, prompting you to walk – here, since the lack of crumbs suggest you did not stop for breakfast where my brother would have undoubtedly had one of his lackeys collect you to avoid unplanned media coverage. And since,” Sherlock continues even though his voice is thinning, “Mary is no longer in custody, I deduce Mycroft came by before you had retired last night to tell you about her escape.”

Sherlock flicks his eyes towards the other man. There are too many emotions etched into his features for him to decipher, but the tired smile is the only one that counts at the moment. 

“Amazing,” John whispers. “How did you know about the shower, though?”

“Faint smell of lemongrass. Over the course of our cohabitation, I have catalogued the deterioration of its –” is as far as he gets before succumbing to a coughing fit. 

John curses, already moving to fetch some water as well as a doctor. 

“Sorry. Should’ve got you something first.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock insists, but John is still shaking his head. 

“No, it’s not.” John’s voice has dropped into dangerous lows. Hands clenching at his side. Sherlock swallows. “You went into cardiac arrest, Sherlock. Small-wave atonic fibrillation. You had blood in your pericardial sac, for Christ’s sake. Human hearts aren’t supposed to have blood in there, you know.”

John doesn’t need to go on for Sherlock’s mind to fill in what happened after that: the blood pushed the pericardium beyond its capacity and started pressing on the heart, which stopped. Cardiac tamponade. No pulse. 

_John Watson is definitely in danger…_

“How…”

“How’re you still here?” John finishes. “They pumped your chest. Dislodged the bullet and the blood could flow out again.” He runs a hand over his mouth with a sigh Sherlock cannot begin to decode. “They were about to call it, Sherlock. They resuscitated you for thirty-two minutes. Had already stepped away. And yet…”

“Here I am.” 

The doctor on call arrives before John has a chance to look up. For all of Sherlock’s mental prowess, he is unable to deduce just what he would have seen in John’s eyes. 

Boring tests and superfluous information on the damage to his right lung – Sherlock knows what an anterolateral thoracotomy scar looks like, thank you very much – the medical staff vacates the room. Sherlock counts down from five inside his head. 

Mycroft enters exactly when he reaches zero. 

“Save any pent-up sarcasm until later, Mycroft,” Sherlock begins, “because I have uncovered the darkest secret we shall ever come across and I will need your undivided attention to guide you through the web of interconnecting deductions necessary to –”

“Mary was working for Moriarty, you bloody drama queen.”

“– untangle the consp- what?” Sherlock stares at John. 

Shoulders squared, chin high. Battle stations. “Moriarty helped her escape custody. Moriarty’s alive.” 

Sherlock stares. Mycroft smirks. John’s face remains blank until it becomes clear that Sherlock is at a loss for words. 

“I’m not a complete idiot, you know.”

“No,” Sherlock murmurs. “You’re a highly intelligent man of rare perception.”

“Sorry, what?”

“Nothing.” Sherlock shakes his head, coughing. John immediately hands him the glass from the bedside table. “All right, I’ll need a cork board, white board, any board will do, and all you have on the woman who calls herself Mary –”

“You will get no such thing, brother mine.”

“Oh, I was wondering when you’d speak up,” Sherlock sneers. “Throat closing up with sentiment? I think not, judging by the thread count.”

Mycroft’s scowl is oddly soothing. “Be glad you find yourself in a private room. I can still add an incessant over-sharer.”

“You’ve lost weight.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“No idea whatsoever – shouldn’t there be a nurse to change my bandages?” Sherlock deflects. 

It successfully distracts John, who decides to make an enquiry, yet Mycroft’s eyes narrow. Damn. 

“You still owe me a list, Sherlock.”

He averts his gaze. “It was for a case.”

“Convenient of you to tackle it immediately after the wedding.”

Sherlock focuses on the seam of the unflattering hospital gown. 

“Promise me, Sherlock –”

“He’s back. I’ve got a case.”

The ambiguity of the statement is certainly not lost on his brother, whose mask cracks, showing a hint of worry – though it’s Sherlock who should be concerned without being able to pinpoint why. There is something gnawing at his mind, an echo from the depth of the galanty show his neurons conjured up for him during his coma. 

Medical staff descend on them then, and the inkling slips away between Sherlock’s fingers. 

*

“Doctor John Watson?” 

The speaker, a bland woman with a tough edge to her, is wearing a suit that costs more than John’s entire wardrobe. She looks incredibly out of place in the cafeteria of St Bart’s, where John has been ordered to go instead of pacing in front of Sherlock’s room for the better part of the next hour. 

“Yes?”

“Would you follow me, sir?”

“May I ask what this is about?”

“Your wife, sir.”

His phone chimes with a text alert. A glance at the screen confirms his suspicion. 

Right. His alibi. 

“Is everything okay?” he asks loud enough for the absolutely inconspicuous group of ‘relatives’ at the table next to his to overhear. 

“Just follow me, please,” the agent repeats, and John obeys. 

He is banned from visiting Sherlock for the twenty-four hours that follow because “grieving widowers don’t just walk about London the day after they find out their wife has been killed in an explosion.”

John doesn’t ask where Mycroft’s spooks got the corpse, or if breaking the story that morning is part of a deal Mycroft struck with Magnussen in exchange for information. _BLOGGER’S WIFE KILLED IN TERRORIST ATTACK – HOLMES WAKES FROM COMA_ is surely going to sell a horrendous amount of papers. 

What he does is take time off and entertain Sherlock by helping him work through the backlog of cases in his inbox. It feels a bit like playing secretary, but it keeps him occupied and away from memories associated with hospitals since Sherlock insisted on being transferred to a private rehab facility. 

John ignores Mike’s calls and Greg’s texts asking if he wants to meet for a pint. He ignores his house in favour of Baker Street. John ignores pretty much everything until the head of Human Resources at his surgery asks him if he wishes to return after his leave is up. 

The thought of spending forty hours a week at the place where Mary entered his life (forced her way into a lift one day and dazzled John with an exciting tale of one of her patients, actually; _Christ_ , it’s so obvious in retrospect) makes his chest feel tight and his pulse race. 

So he quits. 

On the same day he calls an agency in order to get the house on the market. 

That evening, he declines Mrs Hudson’s invitation for dinner and starts packing. Two sets of boxes – one for his belongings, one for Mary’s. It feels cathartic. 

Close to midnight, Mycroft Holmes appears in the door to the master bedroom. 

“A moving company is scheduled for the day after tomorrow. They will remove everything you wish to rid yourself of.”

“Guess asking how you got in would be pointless?”

“Indeed.” 

Mycroft’s eyes sweep through the room. His gaze lingers on the print of Freddie Mercury for much longer than John is comfortable with. Harry’s dedication on the back may not be visible, yet there is no doubt that a man like Mycroft will be able to infer exactly why he’s holding on to this particular birthday present. 

John clears his throat. Mycroft regards him for a moment. 

“Sherlock has never seen this room, has he?” 

“Didn’t think you’re the kind of bloke to go for rhetorical questions.” 

“Only if they serve a purpose.”

“Yeah, and what’s that – annoying me?” John chuckles, wiping his clammy palms on his trousers. “Is it revenge for all the texts?”

Seeing Mycroft smile – not grimace – in response is a strange turn of events. It becomes ever stranger when his features morph into something that is not his usual inscrutable mask, but rather a sombre expression.

“Tonight found me in the company of Mr Magnussen.”

John’s brow furrows in interest. “To get his stuff on Mary?”

“That was my intention. However, I miscalculated. It seems that Mr Magnussen and my brother share a memory technique.”

The statement hangs in the air between them. John pushes to his feet when realisation strikes. 

“He doesn’t have anything.”

“Quite the contrary,” Mycroft says gravely. “Yet not on paper. He confirmed Mary’s past involvement with James Moriarty in exchange for the headline you certainly noticed, but other than that he is most unforthcoming.”

“Then make him testify.”

Mycroft’s lips twist into a sneer. “Seven meetings with the Prime Minister in the past year, but Doctor Watson believes this man can be forced to dance to anyone’s tune but his own.”

“There’s got to be something!” John snaps, closing the distance between them. 

Mycroft remains unimpressed. “I’m exploring every option.” A weary sigh. “There’s an east wind coming, Doctor Watson. We must be vigilant.” 

With an audible exhale, John steps past him and down the stairs. The other man follows, either because he knows what John is getting at or due to mild interest. Either way, John crosses his arms two metres from the front door, the message inescapably clear. 

Mycroft takes his time crossing the living room. “I’m afraid work will take me away from England for prolonged periods over the course of the next few months.”

John almost jerks back. “What? Now? But –” 

“The world does not revolve around my little brother, regardless of what you might think.”

John’s protests die on his tongue. Something has shifted in the air between them. Mycroft looks… dejected, almost. Pained. 

Their gazes hold for a few long seconds. 

“Look after him, Doctor Watson?” he whispers. “Please?”

John uncrosses his arms and gives a curt nod without a moment’s hesitation. Mycroft Holmes mirrors the nod, then leaves. John watches with a sinking feeling in his stomach. 

*

“What do you mean, ‘obvious’?”

“Oh, didn’t I mention that deduction?” Sherlock calls from the bathroom. The sneer is practically _audible_. “Must have slipped my mind.” 

John doesn’t know whether to laugh or bang his head against the nearest wall. 

“You’re a petty dickhead, you know that?” 

“It’s called sibling rivalry. I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept.”

“Harry never made me embarrass myself in front of a media tycoon,” John shouts back. _Only possible dates_ , is what he doesn’t add. 

With a final pat, he closes the zipper of Sherlock’s suitcase currently residing on the bed and looks up towards the open door, hoping the other man will get a bloody move on. 

“She might have tried if you’d had those connections. Mycroft has done far worse in his time.” 

“As long as he won’t retaliate today; it’s not just you braving the photographers, you know,” John grumbles, almost hoping it was too low for Sherlock to hear. 

No such luck. 

“We’re giving the people what they want, John! Keep them from digging or –”

Sherlock stops abruptly. John takes a pre-emptive deep breath. 

“Yeah, go on.” 

“You changed your hair.”

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t usually do this… swipe to the side thing, does it?” Sherlock wonders, miming the movement of John’s hair with his hands in a way that’s quite amusing.

“No,” he huffs. “I’m trying a new look. I know it’s hard, but please, spare your mocking for another day.”

“Oh – no, uh… It looks good.”

John stares. Sherlock looks sincere. He sounded sincere, too. “You mean that.”

“Contrary to that ghastly moustache, this makes you look younger something I believe that people find of some advantage.”

“The moustache wasn’t that bad,” John grumbles, if only to hide the blush that is threatening to creep up his neck. 

“Yes, it was.”

“Well, I shaved it, didn’t I.”

John doesn’t need to look at his friend to know he is smiling. Smug bastard. 

“Come on, Gavin just arrived to drive us back,” Sherlock informs him – without letting John in on the how, naturally – and slips into his coat. 

“His name’s Greg.”

Sherlock feigns innocence. “That’s what I said.” 

Then he skips out of the room, no crutches, no external assistance. The enthusiasm is infectious, John finds. 

*

_DETECTIVE AND HIS BLOGGER RETURN WITH A VENGEANCE  
By Saanvi Dandekar, published 16 September 2014_

_It has been hardly more than two weeks since London saw the return of detective Sherlock Holmes to his home at 221B Baker Street. The company of John Watson, his long-time blogger who recently lost his wife and unborn child to the terrorist attack on Bath, came as a positive surprise._

_Since then, the duo has torn through a record number of cases. This will finally silence the critics who thought the gunshot wound Holmes suffered four weeks ago on 18 August, coupled with the coma that followed, would slow the man down or prompt him to hang up his detective hat entirely._

_There has only been one update to John Watson’s blog, much to their fans’s dismay. In his entry of 4 September, Watson writes:_

_“It’s difficult, but life goes on. It is what it is. We’re back to solving cases, so if anyone wants to get in touch, please send us your details.”_

_The post drove much traffic to the site, including Patricia Apricot. The middle-aged woman from Wimbledon came to Holmes with […]_

*

His phone buzzes in his coat pocket. 

Days like this, when John barely manages to keep up with Sherlock’s rapid-fire deductions and their clients leave a tearful but happy mess, he almost forgets all the awful things that have happened. 

Then Mycroft calls to check in, and everything – Mary still on the run, the threat of Moriarty dangling above their heads – comes back in a rush that makes it hard to stay upright. 

“Do you have one of your minions track me, or is it just coincidence that you always call when I’m heading to the shops?” 

“I do not believe in coincidences, John,” is Mycroft’s response. “I advise you to adjust your worldview accordingly.”

“Ha, yeah – no,” John laughs. “And it’s been a good few days. Even got him to eat twice yesterday. Well, we had five cases, but, you know.”

“I’m aware. That’s not why I called.”

John’s steps falter. His grip on his phone tightens. “Oh?”

“There has been movement among the criminal element.” 

John waits, but that seems all the older Holmes wanted to say. “That’s… informative.”

“It’s as informative as I can be, given your security clearance.”

“You know, there’s always the option to change that,” John suggests, keeping his tone light even though his shoulders have yet to relax. 

Mycroft doesn’t let himself be goaded into revealing more, not that John is surprised. On his return to Baker Street, Sherlock acknowledges the new information with an absent-minded hum while his eyes remain glued to the wall. They are solving four cases at once, since tackling one thing at a time and waiting for reports or test results has been deemed “a tedious waste of time”. Tracking down Mary remains a perpetual fifth case – the trail has long since gone cold. Only fresh evidence will help them now. 

The doorbell rings just as John puts the kettle on. Sherlock and his eyes meet across the flat. 

“Client,” Sherlock says. “MRS HUDSON!” 

The sounds of their landlady opening the door drift up the staircase, followed by the clacking of heels. John is looking for the teabags in the midst of the cluttered lab into which Sherlock has turned their kitchen and the noise of the boiling water muffles the brief exchange in the living room. 

That’s why it comes as somewhat of a shock when John emerges from the kitchen to find none other than Janine standing there. 

She looks well – brown hair falling in shiny waves, designer clothes, a self-satisfied smirk on her lips as she regards Sherlock. 

For some reason, Sherlock smirks back. “He made me wear the hat? He always carries handcuffs?”

Janine shrugs. “A girl can dream.”

“Your imagination is rather vivid.”

“It’s not like I had the real thing, Sherl.”

Sherlock hums. “Cottage?”

Janine’s grin widens. “Sussex Downs. It’s gorgeous. There’s bee hives, but I’m getting rid of those.” 

“Why did you hire someone to care for them, then?”

The woman laughs, the sound filling the flat. “I knew I was right to come to you.”

“So we’re good, then?” 

“Of course.”

“John, please do close your mouth,” Sherlock says without turning towards him, “it’s getting rather embarrassing.”

“Hiya, John,” Janine says. She looks torn for a moment – John’s seen it before, clients contemplating whether to issue some platitude about condolences or ignore it completely. Janine opts for the latter. 

“Hello,” John greets. His smile feels fake even to him. “What can we help you with?”

“My necklace. A gift from my foster brother.” Her fond smiles falters. “Someone stole it while I was sleeping tonight. It was on the boudoir in the other room and when I went to get it before travelling back home, it was gone.”

“I’m sorry,” John interrupts. “Where were you staying?”

“I attended a party and stayed the night.”

“Casual acquaintance or boyfriend?” Sherlock asks. “These details are important.”

Janine doesn’t miss a beat. “We’re not putting a label on it.” 

“Well, we’ll have to inspect the crime scene.”

“We do?” John echoes, his eyes darting to the crime wall. “What about Miss Peregrine and her –”

“Tell her to fire her solicitor. He’s hiding the money he’s embezzling as donations to Amnesty International. The rest can wait. This is far more interesting,” Sherlock declares, and John knows better than to argue. 

*

The address Janine gave the cab driver belongs to a lush townhouse in Regent’s Park. Her new catch is obviously from a wealthy family – probably grew up on an estate somewhere in the country and received an Oxbridge education. 

Sherlock fits right into the splendour of the entrance hall. John tugs at the hem of his three-year-old shirt and pulls his hands behind his back to hide the threadbare cuffs of his jacket. 

“And this is the master of the house, Sebastian Moran,” Janine says when a tall, muscular man rounds a corner. 

The ginger hair is a surprise, but the confident smile and bespoke suit fit perfectly into what John has imagined the bloke to look like from Janine’s description. 

“Ah, you must be Sherlock Holmes.” Moran’s tone is strange. His eyes travel along the lines of Sherlock’s body. “You’re even more handsome than Janine insinuated,” he practically purrs.

John clears his throat. “Captain John Watson.” 

All he receives is a perfunctory “Pleasure,” from the other man without as much as a glance. 

“Any relation to Lord Moran?” Sherlock enquires. 

He doesn’t seem to have noticed that he is being blatantly flirted at. Small mercies, John thinks as he forces his hands to unclench. 

“Very distant, Mr Holmes,” this Moran says. “I cannot thank you enough for taking this case, sir, considering the history between you two.”

“Water under the bridge. Where was the necklace seen last?”

They inspect the room and the boudoir Janine mentioned, then go on to question all members of the staff in attendance the previous night in a room apparently intended for meetings in the West wing of the house. John doesn’t feel quite as uncomfortable as he did in Buckingham Palace, yet he finds himself on the receiving end of quite a few condescending sneers from Moran regardless. Sherlock obviously doesn’t need him at the moment, so he wanders off on his own. 

The unmistakable sound of shots being fired draws John like a moth to a flame. 

“May I help you, sir?” 

The person firing the guns, a young man of Indian descent if John were to make a guess, also has cleaning supplies in his vicinity at the house’s shooting range. The long room stretches along the house’s east wing with a door on the other side leading onto the grounds. 

“Perhaps. Captain John Watson,” he introduces himself. “I’m here with Detective Sherlock Holmes. Were you here last night?”

The young man, Neel Jones, says he helped out in the kitchen during the celebration and went to bed right after. His alibi is weak but John can’t find a motif. 

“Want help cleaning them?” John offers. 

“There’s no need, sir –”

“It’s not that,” John insists. “I just don’t feel like heading back inside again.”

“Is Miss Hawkins still there?”

“I’m more worried Mr Moran’s gonna put me in the stocks at midday if I mislabel one more item in his household.”

“Oh, Mr Moran isn’t like that,” Neel argues, much to John’s surprise. 

He gives an encouraging hum and listens as the other man relates some encounters that paint their host in a much more favourable light than John’s impressions do. 

“Ah, well done, John. I see you found the perpetrator.”

He turns away from Neel, whose grin drops, towards Sherlock who is walking towards them, Moran and Janine at his heels. Moran does not look happy, John notes with a bit of satisfaction. 

“Perpetrator?”

“Yes,” Sherlock confirms. He has that lofty tone that heralds some of his simpler deductions, the ones even John would have been able to make… eventually. “Quite obvious, really. Mr Moran barely recalls the surnames of his staff, yet was able to provide Mr Jones’s without hesitation. He also knew where we was most likely to find the man, and in doing so almost slipped into calling him by his first name, which begins with an N, I presume.”

“Neel,” John volunteers, watching as the man in question blanches. 

“Conclusion: sex.”

“I didn’t steal anything,” Neel protests. “You can search my quarters! I swear I didn’t.”

“Are you sure, Mr Holmes?” Moran butts in. “I admit you might be correct in your first set of assumptions, but why would Neel steal a necklace that only has sentimental value?”

Sherlock’s lips twist into a smug smile. “Why indeed.” 

John is torn between encouraging his friend’s wish to boast or cutting this entire ordeal short. The image of Sherlock’s unconscious form on a hospital bed is still too fresh in his mind, however, so he tilts his head in silent permission. 

“The only reason one would steal such an item is to hurt its owner, which requires both knowledge of its worth and motivation to inflict pain. Mr Jones here said he helped out in the kitchens last night, yet a waiter mentioned Jones also helped clear away used dishes. He overheard Janine explaining the necklace to Mr Moran when he observed them at the bar and saw his chance.”

“But why?” Janine asks. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Sentiment rarely does.” Sherlock’s tone is uncharacteristically soft and remains gentle when he turns to Neel. “You were jealous. Everyone would see that you are Moran’s lover if they just looked at your body language when placed in the same room as him, but there seems to have been a misunderstanding as to the nature of your relationship.”

“I thought we had something!” Neel shouts at Moran, and half a minute later John has to step in to keep the man from adding battery or attempted asphyxiation to the list of charges. 

Neel ends up a sobbing lump pressed against the wall. Janine takes pity and agrees not to press charges, even demands from Moran to write a letter of recommendation and not broadcast why Jones has to leave his job. 

“You’re partly to blame, Seb,” she snubs, and John finds himself agreeing. 

“I must admit I’m surprised,” John says once Sherlock and he are in the cab back to Baker Street. 

“Why? Even you could have figured it out. Eventually.”

“Ta, mate,” he chuckles. “No, I meant that you figured out the motif so quickly. Used to take longer, is all.”

All Sherlock does is hum. John bites his tongue. He doesn’t need to state the obvious. The Sherlock Holmes of a few years ago wouldn’t have been so fast about deducing emotions. 

John just hopes this is as good a development as he thinks it is. 

*

Life might have gone on. John might have begun measuring time in cases solved rather than weeks. But as always, the universe has other plans. 

For on the first day of October, large posters appear all over London and cyberspace, showing a very familiar wedding photo. 

**WANTED – DEAD OR ALIVE  
Gabrielle Ashdown**

Known alias: Mary Watson  
Last seen: Valencia, Spain – 28 September 2014

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the feedback, folks! As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter :)
> 
> I have used [this post](http://fandom-cluing-for-looks.tumblr.com/post/149891611079/the-surgery-of-his-last-vow-agras-killing-shot) as reference for the medical details on Sherlock’s wound. John’s Freddie Mercury poster was inspired by totheverybestoftimes’s headcanon, seen [on Tumblr](http://totheverybestoftimes.tumblr.com/post/155976102043/so-listen-freddie-mercury-was-john-watsons).


	4. In A Nutshell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, folks :) We're in for a bumpy ride... enjoy!

It’s the ringing of his mobile that wakes John. The sun has barely risen but Greg’s number is flashing on his lock screen, meaning he already texted Sherlock but failed to get a reply. 

In moments like this his army training pays off: John is awake and coherent within seconds. 

“Hey, mate, what’s the case?” 

“No case – check your email, I sent you a photo. I’m on my way.”

With that, Greg hangs up. John has never checked his emails faster in his life. 

Said photograph shows a bus stop advertisement in Greg’s borough, declaring Mary a wanted woman. Dead or alive. John feels like he’s choking. 

“JOHN!” comes a call from downstairs. 

Meaning Sherlock already knows. Homeless network, most likely. John gets dressed mechanically and finds his flatmate pacing. The kettle is already boiling, two cups waiting to be filled. 

“You’re making tea. So the world really is ending,” John rasps. The joke falls flat – Sherlock isn’t listening. 

“Why help her escape only to pull the rug right from under her like that? Why unmask her in front of the entire world, it doesn’t make any sense…”

The doorbell rings, signalling Greg’s arrival. He’s not alone, though – Molly has arrived along with him. She gives John an awkward wave. 

“Saw her heading your way,” the inspector explains. 

By the time they are back in the flat, the kettle has finished but John can’t spare a single thought for tea right now. 

“Who’s trying to mess with you, mate? Why use her like that?”

“It’s not a trick,” is as far as John gets before none other than Mycroft Holmes descends on them, pushing into the living room like a storm cloud. 

“You will not utter another word, Doctor Watson, or I will charge you under the Official Secrets Act.”

“Oi,” Greg protests, “you can’t –”

“Need I remind you, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft cuts him off, “that I usually refer to Sir Hogan-Howe as ‘Bernard’?”

John has no clue who that bloke is, but Greg’s jaw clicks shut immediately. 

“Then I suggest you take Miss Hooper and scuttle.” 

Patronising him was exactly the wrong thing to do, however. “You can toss off, Holmes.” The DI gets right in Mycroft’s face, gesturing insistently. “John’s my friend and something’s obviously going on. I’m staying.”

“We could, um, sign something?” Molly supplies. “A confidentiality agreement, or, um…”

“Splendid idea!” Greg agrees with mock cheer. “Could also trust our word, mind you. But I’ll sign something if I have to.”

“Fine.”

The sight of Mycroft’s consternation would be hilarious under other circumstances. John hopes he’ll be able to laugh about it in retrospect.

For now, he has to fill in the blanks for two of their closest friends. Admitting to shooting Mary is difficult, but Sherlock’s very much living presence in the room behind him helps. 

“If she’s the one who broke into CAM tower, then who’s the poor sod who took the fall?”

“A far-left extremist responsible for the death of at least seven individuals, Detective Inspector. Your indignation is unwarranted.”

“Just you wait until it’s made the papers, Holmes –”

“We are already working on a cover story,” Mycroft begins, but Sherlock talks over him. 

“Won’t matter – Magnussen must have received his information on Mary somehow. If he’s in league with Moriarty, as I am fairly certain he is, he’ll be able to disprove any of the tales your pretending-to-be-secret Service is capable of spinning.”

“M-Moriarty?” Molly’s eyes are wide. “But he – isn’t he dead?!” 

John and Sherlock exchange a look. 

Molly pales visibly and even Greg blanches, though his copper’s mind continues to pull at the problem. “But why expose her? If you’re saying he’s helped her escape?”

“James Moriarty once told his network that my brother was in possession of an incredible weapon – a key that would unlock every door. It was nothing but conjecture, of course, but Moriarty enjoyed watching the chaos he caused.” 

“The Waters gang,” John suddenly remembers. “You said something she did cost a life. They’ll be –” he breaks off as he connects the dots. It’s like plunging in ice water.

“Of course…” Sherlock’s eyes have become unfocussed. “Moriarty wants us to save her. Everyone she’s wronged will be after her, chase her until they can execute her for her mistakes.”

“She can bugger off to hell for all I care,” John growls, “but it’s not just her they’re chasing. That’s…” His voice wavers. “That’s my child.”

He can’t look at anyone. He doesn’t need their sympathy right now. After a few moments of tense silence, however, a pair of feet appear in his field of vision. 

“I made a vow, John,” Sherlock whispers, “and I stand by it. We will find her before anyone can take revenge. I promise.”

John keeps his head bowed until the burning sensation is gone from his eyes, then straightens his back and squares his shoulders. He meets Sherlock’s eyes and sees the same iron-hard resolve reflected back at him. 

“She’d figure it out, too, wouldn’t she?” They both turn towards Molly, who starts fidgeting under the scrutiny. “If she’s… I mean. She’ll have a plan, for emergencies.”

“Right,” Sherlock says on an exhale, excitement taking over his features. “She wanted to give up her old life but habits are hard to break, especially ones that secure one’s survival.” He starts pacing again, yet this time he seems to be looking for something. “She would have planned for every contingency, including one that left us as her only allies. She’ll have come up with a safe haven, a place to meet. There’ll be a clue… NOBODY MOVE!”

Both Greg and Molly freeze mid-motion. Sherlock continues to prowl, eventually reaching the fireplace.

“None of you know the flat like I do – Mary was clever, very clever, and she’ll have put it out of sight but somewhere I’d look for it… Tada!”

John blinks. “Inside your skull?”

Sherlock throws the thing into the air with a grin. It turns when it reaches the highest point before falling back into Sherlock’s waiting palm. Indeed, there’s a slip of paper inside the cavity…

… but the message is gibberish. 

_dlms niihnanug lnfeir ntfde iae_

“It’s an anagram,” Mycroft tells them. 

Sherlock already has his hands raised and eyes closed, clearly trying to solve it in his mind. John’s lips twitch when he sees Mycroft’s smirk, even though he should probably snap at the older Holmes that now isn’t the time to hold some childish competition. 

Mycroft huffs a moment later. “If in danger –”

“Find me in a nutshell,” Sherlock finishes, almost stumbling over the words in his hurry to get them out. 

Sherlock throws his brother a haughty look, then continues to mutter under his breath. Mycroft remains unimpressed. 

“How’s that supposed to help?” Greg runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head. 

Sherlock seems to be galloping three steps ahead, listing every kind of nut he has ever read about. John blinks. There’s something tugging at his memories. 

“… pecan, maybe pecan pie, some Americanism; or pistachio – Italy isn’t too far from Spain after all…”

John gasps as it comes to him. “Pinewood Hill.”

“Pardon?”

“It’s a place, an orphanage – Mary spent the last few years there before she turned eighteen. Or at least that’s what she told me,” John amends, unable to keep the bitterness out of his tone. 

Sherlock whips his phone out immediately. He whoops in victory half a minute later. 

“Not an orphanage. Old weapon’s factory near Manchester.”

John breathes a sigh of relief. They have a destination.

*

John’s left hand is fascinating. 

He has flattened it against his thigh while his right is massaging his temple at the back of the one car leaving Baker Street that was not a decoy. John might think he is holding the hand perfectly still, yet the minute twitches cannot be stifled. 

Sherlock began observing the hand in an attempt to determine the best way to act around John at this moment in time – John expresses worlds with simple gestures, Sherlock has found – but every line of the man’s body shouted at Sherlock to keep quiet. So Sherlock stopped observing and started watching instead. 

He catalogued every scar marring the visible patches of John’s skin years ago. The line of skin where his wedding band used to reside, paler in contrast to the tanned fingers, however, is new. 

Mary may be the mother of his child, Sherlock concludes, but she will no longer be the woman John Watson has pledged his life to. 

Oddly, the deduction soothes something inside Sherlock. 

He refuses to dwell on it, let alone give it a name. He has more pressing things to worry about. 

Pinewood Hill, for example. The factory is vast, three stories high and in a sad state of decay. Their approach brings with it the transformation of John into Captain Watson, whom Sherlock intuitively falls into step behind. Backup is in position, including a helicopter. 

_Oh, Sherlock. What have you done?_

A memory flashes across Sherlock’s mind, making him shudder. He grits his teeth. It’s neither Christmas nor is there a wronged secretary on the loose. 

Every room they check, leading off the dust-covered hallway, sits empty. The second storey holds nothing but mice and vermin, the third a bird’s nest. 

“The factory hall,” Sherlock concludes. 

“Why would she wait out there in the open?”

Sherlock hesitates. “I don’t know.”

Worry darkens John’s features even further at Sherlock’s admission. They proceed with similar caution, weapons raised and ready to fire, checking around corners and sweeping the path ahead for traps, which is why they notice the active CCTV camera. 

Mary is indeed inside the hall, perched on a steel table, gun cradled in her lap. Broken machines have long been pushed to the side, opening up the space for whatever shady business has been conducted here for decades. Mary slips off the only furniture remaining in the middle and lifts her weapon as an afterthought.

Seeing her again sends a chill down Sherlock’s spine. Phantom pain flares where her shot added one more scar to his skin, but he ignores it. He’s not alone, after all. 

“Hello, John.” 

Mary’s soft tone is at odds with her appearance: exhaustion is etched into her features, her hair matted; her dark clothes have seen better days. Sherlock can retrace her steps five days into the past and what he sees does not bode well. 

“Please, John, say something.”

“What do you want me to say?” John snaps. “What could I possibly say?”

The wet gleam of Mary’s eyes spur Sherlock into action. The faster they resolve this and stop being sitting ducks in the open space, the better. 

“We know Moriarty gave you up,” he tells her. “Painted a target on your back.”

Mary’s head jerks towards him and the softness evaporates in the blink of an eye, mouth pulling into a sneer. “Oh, Sherlock. I held the brush, too.”

“You planned this with him?” Sherlock says, if only to clarify. 

John processes, grip on his Sig tightening. “Why? What do you want?”

“Talk, John. I still love you.”

“You never loved me.” 

“Oh darling, of course I do,” Mary insists. She sounds sincere to Sherlock’s ears. “I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you.” 

“And when was that, exactly?” John’s tone is clipped, cold. “That day in the lift?”

Mary shakes her head. “The pool. You were so brave.”

“The pool?” 

Sherlock swallows, eyes flicking from Mary to his friend. John obviously doesn’t understand.

Until he does. 

“You were at the pool? As a _bloody SNIPER_?” It’s more of a snarl than anything, but Mary doesn’t so much as flinch. Then, in a voice so eerily calm it both thrills and shocks Sherlock, John concludes, “You never left his service.”

“You can’t,” Mary says. “No one can.” 

“I was just a job, then, hm? Make the idiot fall in love with you, make him marry you –”

“No, John, you mustn’t believe that. All that was real, I swear! I was only supposed to keep an eye on you, maybe seduce you. It stopped being a job for me on our second date.” A smile blooms on Mary’s face. “Remember that, darling?”

John says nothing. Rage is boiling right underneath the surface of his skin, one spark away from erupting. It is a sight to behold. 

A familiar melody cuts through the tension. 

Sherlock’s eyes find their origin immediately: the mobile in Mary’s pocket. A hint of worry colours her features as her eyes dart to the screen before she schools her expression again and puts an end to the Bee Gees’s rendition of “Staying Alive” with the swipe of a thumb. 

“Hello?” she asks, phone at her ear. 

Her other hand is holding the gun. Sherlock exchanges an apprehensive glance with John. 

Mary tilts her head at them. “It’s for you.”

She approaches slowly, her hands raised. Sherlock accepts the phone and switches it to speaker. 

“I’ve missed you. Did you miss me, too, Sherlock?”

John jerks back at the sound of Moriarty’s voice, an auditory proof for the man’s thus far theoretical survival. Sherlock’s reaction remains internal, ‘MISS ME’s swirling in front of his mind’s eyes. 

He forces his voice to remain calm. “Not really, no.”

“Liar,” Moriarty goads. “Why else would you spend two years dismantling my network? Nice work, by the way, really. Kudos. Really drained the swamp over there. Saved me a lot of spring cleaning.”

John exhales sharply. Sherlock doesn’t want to look up and see the pain that comes with the reminder of the two years he left the man to his grief. 

“But you’ve got the real thing, now. Aren’t you excited?” Moriarty makes a whooping noise. “You’ll love what I’ve got in store for you, Sherlock. Our last games will seem like a bedtime story. No more fairy tales. Time for some horror.”

Moriarty’s manic laughter bounces off the factory walls and takes up residence deep inside Sherlock’s bones, like a virus corroding him from within. 

“Why now?” he manages at last. “Why wait until now?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Moriarty quips. “I watched you, Sherlock. Got my eyes on you. You’re ready now.”

He sees John’s brow furrow out of the corner of his eye.

“Ready?” Sherlock asks, though he thinks he already knows the answer. 

“For the final act. Our, ha…” Another laugh, then Moriarty’s voice drops into a seductive drawl, “Our _culmination point_.”

“Why aren’t you here, then? We’ll end this once and for all.” 

“No rush, sexy. This is only the beginning. Besides,” Moriarty adds, voice dripping with sarcasm, “I don’t much fancy running into your big brother today, Sherlock. That can wait. You need me, Sherlock. Your fairy tale needs a villain. Every hero needs a nemesis.”

“You can’t keep that up forever.”

“No. But there’s still our little problem.”

“The final problem,” Sherlock provides, ignoring the confusion radiating off John next to him in favour of watching Mary, whose stance has shifted ever so slightly. 

“Exactly!” Glee fills Moriarty’s voice. “You get it, don’t you? You know? Tell me, Sherlock – TELL ME!”

The last bit is bellowed into the microphone. Sherlock refuses to twitch at the shouting. 

“You already made me fall. It’s all about the landing now.”

Moriarty cackles. “Yes, thank you! Good boy, Sherlock. You win this round! Now, let’s have some fun… Let’s see if you can solve my next puzzle… and keep your vow.”

The red dot of a sniper rifle materialises between Mary’s eyes.

Sherlock is paralysed for the split second everyone takes to comprehend the situation, yet before the horror can truly fester in Sherlock’s veins, truly threaten to overwhelm him, Mary bursts into movement. 

A jab to the hand, expertly aimed and executed, disarms John faster than Sherlock can react, which proves a disastrous distraction since Mary, now armed with two guns, attacks him next. 

Sherlock imagined several outcomes of this meeting, yet ending up on his knees, gasping for breath, with the cold barrel of Mary’s Walther PPK pressed to the back of his head was not one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... did I mention I love cliffhangers?


	5. Sibling Rivalry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the chapter from hell, with a villain who kept changing his plan, a Mycroft who kept adapting, and a John who kept emoting all over the place… he never says anything out loud, mind you, or we wouldn’t be in this mess.

John must have fallen into one of his nightmares. Because this? This can’t be reality. 

Mary’s eyes, so full of emotion moments ago, have turned to ice. Her grip on the gun aimed at Sherlock is steady. John pushes his palms out towards her, obeying the silent order of the second weapon, unwaveringly pointed at him. It’s the one she took off Sherlock, who is coughing from the hit to his solar plexus. 

To make matters worse, red dots appear on all their bodies. The simultaneous threat to Sherlock and his unborn child threatens to rip John apart. 

“Don’t,” Mary calls out. “My finger is already on the trigger, Jim. You kill me, your game is over.”

“Wrong move, Mrs Watson,” Moriarty growls from the phone now lying on the concrete floor, still on speaker. His presence fills the room regardless. “You have nowhere left to run. Wherever you go, I will find you. I will kill you, oh yeah, but only after I make you watch what I do to John Watson. I’ll make Helmand look like a ride at Disney World…”

John can’t stop himself flinching at the off-handed mention. 

Mary’s tone is almost calm in comparison. “Call them back or I promise you, Jim, I will shoot.”

“How did you know, poppet?” Moriarty sneers, popping the ‘p’s. “How’d you know I’d turn on you?” 

“Pressure point.” Mary smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. It’s like watching a different person. “You’re Magnussen’s source. I knew it was only a matter of time before you used me and my child for your games.”

Moriarty hums, drawing out the sound in an exaggerated fashion. 

“The ball’s in my court now,” Mary continues, shoving the gun harder into Sherlock’s curls. 

Rage so primal it blinds him for a moment flares in John’s chest. 

Moriarty fakes a pensive hum. “Is it, though? You think you’re so clever, Gabby. Clever little spy, much too good for all the disgusting wet jobs and low pay. But you’re dull. Boooooring,” he sing-songs. “You think daddy cares about you, don’t you? Sorry to disappoint. Say hello to some old friends, Gabby.”

The line cuts off. 

John braces himself. 

He never gets to make his move. The red dots vanish just as the large double door of the factory hall splinters off its hatches. 

There is no time for conscious thought, just instinct. John slams into Sherlock’s back, tackling him onto the ground and shielding his body with his own. 

After that, it’s chaos. 

*

John is still shaking with adrenaline when Mycroft joins him at the ambulance. 

“How is my brother?”

“I’m fine!” Sherlock calls from the stretcher, batting away the hand of the poor sod tasked with making sure. 

John’s lips twitch. The familiarity of it is soothing. 

Mycroft’s voice brings him back to harsh reality. “Mrs Watson is en route to a secure holding facility near London. The baby is perfectly fine, yet I’m afraid the extension of visitation rights will have to wait.”

John gives a curt nod. 

Mycroft’s men intervened the very second the Waters gang stormed the factory. John managed to flip the table Mary had been perched on when they entered and manhandled Sherlock behind the cover it provided, pressing him down with a strong hand on his shoulder. 

He caught Mary selfishly seizing the chance the commotion provided to flee the scene but couldn’t follow, not amidst a rain of bullets and with his gun several metres away from him. 

It worked out fine in the end: half of the assailants dead, the other half in custody, Mary apprehended before she could escape. 

John doesn’t trust it. Not yet, anyway. 

“We have gleaned valuable information on Moriarty’s motives tonight,” Mycroft says. 

“Really? I rather thought the moral is that he’s unpredictable, dear brother,” Sherlock quips, emerging from the A&E bloke’s care. “I’m surprised none of us got whiplash.”

“You once again prove to be the slow one. Underneath the capriciousness, Moriarty has shown his hand.”

Sherlock falls silent as the siblings seem to laps into nonverbal communication that goes completely over John’s head. 

“Boys,” he scolds, heaving a tired sigh. 

Mycroft purses his lips but complies with his request. “The snipers were not in place to kill Sherlock – they were there to add incentive to whatever puzzle Moriarty intended to lay out.”

“So you’re saying he’s targeting Sherlock, but he’s not done playing yet?” John feels the need to clarify. Damn Mycroft’s love for ambiguity. 

It’s Sherlock who answers him. “Exactly, John. The game is on.”

“And that’s a reason to smile like the cat that got the cream?”

Sherlock blinks. “Cats can’t smile.”

“It’s an expression.” John rolls his eyes. 

“Signifying what?”

“What Doctor Watson is endeavouring to communicate, as per his usual maundering,” Mycroft intervenes, “is that you might reconsider the gleeful expression your current predicament evokes.”

Sherlock’s brow furrows. He glances to John. “A bit not good?”

“A bit not good,” John confirms. _You’re going to get yourself killed and I can’t lose you again_ , is at the tip of his tongue. 

From the looks of Mycroft, John might have just as well said it out loud. He hates being this transparent to anyone, but whom is he kidding? Everyone reviewing the surveillance footage of the factory will see where John’s priorities lie, whom he instinctually shielded from the hail of bullets. 

Fortunately, Sherlock remains oblivious. The detective is pouting like a petulant five-year-old and John prepares himself for prolonged exposure to angry violin music once they get back to London. 

If he’s smiling at the prospect, he makes sure to hide it from all potential cameras in the vicinity. 

*

Sherlock doesn’t understand why people focus on the calm before the storm when the calm _afterwards_ is much more interesting. 

Mary, for one, refuses to talk to anyone but her husband. John’s reply is a simple but forceful, “No.”

Sherlock expected as much; after all, he can still feel John’s grip on his shoulder, saving him from the ricochet of at least two bullets instead of protecting his wife, yet he opts not to dwell on it too long since his heart always gives a pathetic flutter at the memory. 

He also expected Mycroft’s ensuing spiel of “information uncovered during the interrogation might save lives of British citizens” and John’s grumbling acquiescence. 

“A car will pick you up promptly at seven-thirty tomorrow morning.”

John barks a bitter laugh. “Is it too early for a divorce?” 

Sherlock has formulated a reply within a split second, yet his brother’s warning glare makes it clear the question was rhetorical. Sherlock wishes it hadn’t been. 

*

_EXCLUSIVE: MARY WATSON’S DARK PAST REVEALED!  
New footage, dated from six years ago, has surfaced on WikiLeaks. In it, a woman positively identified as Mary Watson can be seen on surveillance footage breaking into the Chinese embassy in South Africa […]_

_*_

_MORIARTY – DEAD OR ALIVE?  
YouTube star and conspiracy theorist Patrick Ive lists shocking evidence that suggests the criminal is still very much alive. The transgender vlogger […]_

_*_

_JOHN ‘NO COMMENT’ WATSON – PETITION FOR A STATEMENT ON CHANGE.ORG GAINS SIGNATURES  
John Watson’s latest case write-ups completely sidestep the question of James Moriarty’s continued survival. A subset of readers is outraged: the failure to address the elephant in the room needs to be rectified, they argue. “Doctor Watson owes us answers!” Mackenzie Jing proclaims on Facebook. […]_

*

Sherlock stares at his laptop screen. 

They are all there, from Janine’s stolen necklace (dubbed, “A Scorned Man”) to Miss Peregrine’s greedy solicitor. Not one word on Mary or Moriarty. It’s almost as if John has uncharacteristically chosen denial over confronting problems head on. 

Denial, as well as consuming increased amounts of alcohol, apparently. 

Like Sherlock and cocaine, John’s relationship with alcohol is one of a mere practical nature, thus this turn of events is hardly surprising nor does Sherlock deem it worthy of worry. 

Or should he?

The other Watson’s voice echoes in his head. “He didn’t want a drink… he needed one. He’s not embarrassed; he’s afraid.”

Inductive though his reasoning may be, Sherlock can’t help but wonder: Is his John afraid, too? Afraid of what Mary will tell him? Of what she will demand in exchange for keeping the baby? Of something else? 

The mystery prompts yet another dive into his mind palace, where memories of his experience during the coma have already been dissected too many times to count. Sherlock has not grown bored in the past few weeks since Pinewood Hill.

Unfortunately, conclusions are sparse. Too little data, too much reliance on conjecture and staggering leaps of reasoning that leave more open questions than Sherlock encountered in the first place.

Was there a clue in the sign language used at the Diogenes? Why would his mind imagine Mycroft increased like that, only to oppose it with the visual of a bare fridge? Why did the post-it read 13th? If the John in his mind palace was a projection of his subconscious, what significance carried the maid he never mentions in his write-ups for the Strand?

It can’t be Harry – Sherlock has seen photos of the woman and would have been able to recreate a convincing replica for his dream or mental exercise. But if not Harry, who then? 

“Sherlock?”

He turns from his position on the sofa, fingers still steepled together underneath his chin. John, dressed casually. Tomato stain on his sleeve. Cooking, then. 

“I have a case for you.”

Sherlock squints up at him. 

“There was a bottle of chardonnay in the cupboard. And one of the Johnny Walker, too. What did you do with them?”

“Experiment,” is Sherlock’s nonplussed reply.

A sigh. “Brilliant. If the meat tastes bland, it’s your fault.”

“Shops are still open.” 

The internal struggle matches Sherlock’s expectations: John considers the option, thinks of buying an additional bottle of whiskey to prevent such incidents, is turning towards the coat stand to grab his jacket… when a memory, presumably of Harry, makes him stop.

“Nah,” John says. It only took the span of two seconds. “We’ve got enough spices.”

He never gets around to preparing the meal, however, not with Dimmock rudely entering the flat without as much as a knock. 

“Oh, don’t apologise,” Sherlock taunts. “Needs must, Inspector, when you have a newly identified serial killer on the loose.”

“ _Detective_ Inspector,” Dimmock corrects. “How’d you know?”

“I do skim the headlines occasionally, _Detective Inspector_. Ribcages cracked open, hearts cut out, All Hallowed Eve only a few days away?” Sherlock catches John’s widening eyes across the living room. “Horror.”

“I’ll fetch my gun, shall I?” John suggests, and puts the meat he intended to cook back into the fridge. 

*

The case of what the papers have called ‘The Vicious Cupid’ is the stuff of nightmares. 

It’s a welcome break to John’s actual nightmares, which are filled with drowning on hot sand and Mary making good on her threats to their child if John misses his appointments with her. 

“Whoever did this had training,” he notes as he observes the exposed chest cavity of Mark Gleeson, 32, foreman at a subcontractor of an automobile manufacturer.

“Yeah, we got that much, thanks,” Dimmock says with an eye roll. “This isn’t the first, you know.”

“Three previous victims, all of different ethnic and social backgrounds, no uniform cause of death, but all missing their hearts,” Sherlock says, pacing through the living room where Gleeson’s cleaning lady found the body. “Eight theories –” he stops abruptly, turning away from the book shelf. “No, seven. I’ll need to see the other victims.”

“They’re scattered in morgues all across the country!”

“Then you better file the appropriate forms,” Sherlock tells him with that eerie smile of his that will fuel sociopath comments for weeks to come, John is certain. 

“Is Moriarty staging all this? Or just capitalising on some deranged sod?” he wonders on the cab ride back. 

There is an appreciative gleam in Sherlock’s eyes that makes John’s chest swell a bit. “Hypotheses number one and two.”

“But you’ve got seven; all right, let’s see if I can get this – hang on.” John narrows his eyes at their surroundings. “What are we doing at Bart’s?”

“We? Nothing. _You_ are going home to sort through the files on the previous cases. I have tests to run.”

It’s pointless to argue with Sherlock when he’s in full detective mode, so John just slumps back in his seat and pays the exorbitant cab fare they raked up, coming back all the way from Ealing. Fortunately, the increased case load since Sherlock’s return from hospital means their account is flush with cash for the time being. 

John is elbow-deep in documents and photographs, perched on the floor in front of the crime wall he is piecing together, when his phone rings. 

It’s a number from the Met. John’s body tenses as he picks up. 

“This is Sergeant Donovan. There’s someone in a holding cell you might want to come fetch.”

John groans. “What did he do now?”

“Not the freak,” Donovan says. “She’s also rather drunk.”

Who – _oh_. 

“Harry?! Harry is in London?”

“Said she was out drinking with her new colleagues, so I reckon she got a new job. You can ask her yourself when you come down,” she adds pointedly and John takes the hint. 

The snapshots he gets about his sister’s life aren’t enough to piece together a coherent picture, but when he arrives at the station, coherence is not what he finds anyway. 

“Johnny,” Harry breathes, her voice slurred but joyful. She is lying on the cot in the otherwise empty cell, half asleep. “You came. Didn’t think you would. Made a bet with the fit sergeant. Said my favourite minger would come. I owe her a kiss now.”

John looks up to Donovan, fighting his embarrassment. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine. For the record, I never agreed to the bet.”

She doesn’t sound offended, which is good. John’s heart is beating in his throat. Harry’s talkative in this state, and the last thing he needs is his secrets being blabbed within earshot of the fine men and women of NSY. 

John successfully coaxes Harry upright, words and movements coming back to him from the depths of his memories. They taste like bile in his mouth but they do the trick, and Harry eventually stands on wobbly feet looking for her wallet to show her new address to John. 

“Take me home, minger,” she mumbles. 

“Cor, bint,” John answers, if only for old time’s sake. Somehow they never outgrew their nicknames. “Thank you for this,” he tells Donovan. 

She could have let the desk sergeant deal with Harry, could have let something slip to the papers – what a wonderful scandal that would have been, the blogger’s drunk sister sleeping it off in a cell – or exchanged it for a favour of some kind, but for some reason, Donovan chose to do the nice thing. 

“Don’t mention it.” She holds his gaze. 

A spark of recognition jolts through John and he gives her a tired smile. 

Harry’s new flat is… impressive. The location alone, in the north of Southwark near London Bridge, means that Harry must have scored a decent new job. Then again, she has about three decades of experience as a graphic designer under her belt, and from what John heard she has a knack for it, too. 

Too bad her boss and his friends are the partying type. 

“I’ve got it under control,” Harry assures him. The way she’s wriggling out of her dress makes the statement fall flat, though. 

His medical ethics are stronger than his impulse to turn and run, so John makes sure Harry is tucked in after drinking a glass of water and leaves another glass on her bedside table. 

He grabs some aspirin for himself to battle the headache that has been building throughout the past hour and leaves his sister to sleep it off. When he returns to a still empty 221B, John breathes a sigh of relief. If Sherlock never meets Harry, it will have been too soon. 

There are some deductions Sherlock must never make.

*

Nothing makes sense. The victims share not a single common denominator, and their killer was smart enough to provide no clues whatsoever. 

The faint _ping_ of a text alert registers faintly. Sherlock stares at the crime wall. He prefers John’s arrangements as opposed to his own since he arranges the evidence in a way Sherlock would never have conceived of, thus keeping him on his toes. This time, however, it fails to catalyse neither epiphany nor new impulse. 

Another _ping_. This is getting tedious. 

“Sherlock,” John calls from somewhere – hallway. Freshly showered. The temptation to turn and catch a sliver of exposed skin is enticing. Sherlock almost yields to the distraction. 

Another _ping_. 

“All right, that’s it,” John grouses, followed by the sound of bare feet marching across the living room. 

Then there is silence. 

Sherlock succumbs to curiosity, but the sight of a damp John in his ugly dressing gown quickly becomes white noise in contrast to the horrified expression on the man’s face. 

“He texted,” is John’s curt explanation. He chucks the phone at Sherlock and darts for his laptop. A look at the lock screen tells him why. 

_[07:13 AM] Hello, sexy!_  
[07:14 AM] Are you stuck? Is it too hard?  
[07:15 AM] finalproblem.me. Let’s bring you some relief ;) 

Two steps and Sherlock is at John’s side at the desk where John is already typing. The website is pitch-black and empty save for a single video, captioned “What a comeback!”

John’s hand is steady when he clicks on the play button. 

The screen remains black but someone is whimpering – female, late teens. An abrupt cut shows Moriarty from the chest up, wearing charcoal Westwood and a smirk. 

“This is a Public Service Announcement,” he says in a dull monotone before his grin broadens. “Surprise!” 

The shout gives way to laughter, a cackling almost, that stops when another whimper escapes the girl in the background. 

“I’ve been thinking about this comeback for ages,” Moriarty says with a leer. “So hard to choose a medium these days – but pictures lack the personal touch, wouldn’t you say, Cherise?” 

The camera pans, focus shifting. Behind Moriarty in front of a generic white canvas (either hiding the background to avoid the location being traced or a red herring) sits a young woman that looks strangely familiar.

“Cherise, one of the Beaumont sisters,” John murmurs. “Singer, I think? Internet famous.”

“Videos are a lot more fun, too. More _monumental_.” Moriarty’s eyes are crinkling at the edges. “You can spread them like a virus… Don’t you think, Sherlock?”

John exhales sharply but Sherlock expected this. 

“Oh, I can hear your wheels churning, round and round and round and round,” Moriarty sing-songs. “But this one’s easy. I’m being kind. Not to Lukas, though.” Moriarty tilts his head, his tone filled with faux regret. “Lukas won’t like this at all.”

A song Sherlock doesn’t know starts playing and Moriarty sways his hips to the beat for a moment before executing a spin and sighing in joyous relief. “Oh, it’s good to be back!”

The video ends with another whimper from Cherise. 

“She’s become famous on YouTube with her sisters, then they split to go off to university but Cherise just released a new video last month – she’s going solo,” John fills him in without prompting. “Who’s Lukas?”

“Homeless network,” Sherlock says. “His usual spot is at Monument tube station.”

John nods, then rushes upstairs to change. 

*

Whatever production Moriarty staged, it has already drawn a crowd before the police managed to close down the station. Dimmock earns his right to exist by parting the masses when they hurry down the stairs off King William Street into Monument Station, John covering his six by silent agreement. 

No amount of hoping for the best can soothe the sense of foreboding, and the sharp pain in Sherlock’s chest at the sight of Lukas’s mutilated dark skin makes it hard to focus for a moment. 

“Jesus,” John coughs. He does not shield his eyes. Not for the first time, Sherlock wonders what horrors he has seen during his deployments. 

In macabre fashion, the twenty-three-year-old man has been put on display in a nook near the ticket barrier, limbs pulled taut and dreadlocks fanned out on the cold tiles. Scrapes on the floor speak of a partition that was used to hide the preparation. 

Above Lukas on the wall, large letters have been written in blood. 

#1   
WHAT’S THE MOTIVE, SHERLOCK?  
CHERISE NEEDS YOU TO KNOW

“Motive?” Dimmock stammers like the blundering idiot Sherlock has been telling Lestrade he is. “Of a psychopathic serial killer?”

“As always you are much too hasty in drawing your conclusions.” Sherlock spins on his heels but it’s no use – too many people, too many phones pointed at him, undoubtedly recording his every micro-expression. “ENOUGH!” he bellows. His voice jumps off the walls in the most satisfying manner. “Nobody move, nobody think, nobody breathe!” 

The majority obeys. Sherlock slips into his mind palace, sifting through everything he knows about Lukas and the other victims. No connection – the killer must be on a self-righteous crusade for an abstract ideal. Revenge? For what? The only think worthy of reproach that Lukas has ever done in his life is – 

“Oh!” Sherlock gasps, eliciting an encouraging nod from John. “Siblings!”

He is already unlocking his phone, going through his deduction at rapid speed. 

“It’s all there, hidden in their personal files: Alice Pearson, the first victim, left her little sister alone at home so she could snog her boyfriend when she was a teenager. She had also left the oven switched on, causing gas to leak and subsequently ignite. Her sister spent six years in a coma before being taken off life support. Brendan Tavoli was playing with his father’s gun when he accidentally pulled the trigger, unaware that his little brother had been looking for him. He was dead immediately. Mark Gleeson failed to check his sister’s skiing gear before they set off. She broke her neck, much like Lukas’s twin when he shoved him in the living room while high. They’d argued over the last bag of crisps.”

“So the killer is taking revenge?” John interrupts. 

“On behalf of wronged and deceased siblings,” Sherlock confirms. “Obviously flawed in its logic but to our killer it certainly is perfectly sound. She probably lost a sibling recently at the hand of an older one –”

“She?”

“Obvious. There has only been one case of fratricide in the past two years with another sibling as witness who then was admitted to a mental health clinic.”

“Bloody brilliant,” he hears John mutter under his breath. 

Sherlock’s pulse stutters, a counter-rhythm to the dial tone in his ear. 

He delivers his deduction the moment the line is open, then waits in tense silence along with the forty-seven or so onlookers he blocked out until now. 

“I’m disappointed, Sherlock.” Moriarty sighs in exaggerated desolation. “You were so slow. But you can still grow… Rise to the occasion… That was only task one. Tell my fans I said hi,” he adds in a happier tone, before hanging up. 

A gasp tears through the crowd. Sherlock and John turn as one to locate the source of the panic.

Behind a pillar, next to a makeshift box that collapsed when discarded moments ago to reveal what’s underneath, lies a dog on a blanket of crimson blood. 

Slivers of memories flicker past Sherlock’s inner eye; Redbeard barks in the distant corners of his mind. 

“Yeah, heart’s gone, too… Sherlock? There’s a note,” John says, but his voice sounds muted. 

Sherlock shakes his head and forces the memories aside. Inspecting the animal’s body with his usual clinical detachment proves futile. _I will burn the heart out of you._ Is this what Moriarty meant? 

“For each man kills the thing he loves / yet each man does not die.”

Sherlock’s eyes dart to John, confused until he sees the piece of paper in John’s gloved hands. 

“Hang on, that sounds familiar…”

“It’s a poem by Oscar Wilde,” Sherlock supplies. “The Ballad of Reading Gaol.”

“Also says it’s number two of thirteen.”

Sherlock grabs the note from him – indeed, it looks like Moriarty has numbered the puzzles he is giving him. 

“Thirteen?”

Wonderful. _Now_ Dimmock chooses to pay attention. 

“You mean there’re thirteen more?”

“Eleven, technically, seeing as we are already on the second,” Sherlock corrects. “We need to get to Reading Gaol. I already texted Lestrade, he will arrest your serial killer before she strikes again.”

“Lestrade?! This is _my_ case, Holmes!”

Sherlock ignores him. John, not so much. 

“Listen,” he says, his tone only one step short of full-on Captain Watson authority. “This is bigger than you getting credit for some arrest that Moriarty’s already planned on anyway. Lives are at stake and right now Sherlock is the only person in this city who can save them, so you’re going to shut up and help us, or I will _make_ you.”

Watching Dimmock’s mind process this situation would be amusing if it weren’t so vexing. Eventually, the man spits out a “Fine!” and organises them a police car to take them to Reading, sirens blaring. 

*

It doesn’t hit John until they are on puzzle number nine. In his defence, he is going on the thirty-forth hour without sleep. At this point, the only things holding him up are adrenaline and loyalty. 

“Bloody hell – I confirmed his return. There were sodding _camera phones_ – they’re going to upload it on YouTube!” 

Groaning, John lets his head fall back against the wall of the lift they are currently riding. Their target: a senior banker who is lining her pockets by means of insider trading. What the woman did to incur Moriarty’s wrath is still beyond him, though. 

Sherlock just rolls his eyes. “They already have, John. Please focus on the problem at hand.”

“It’s what he wants, isn’t it? That’s why all these rotten public areas. He’s stirring up a panic.”

“Glad you caught on,” Sherlock says, tone clipped. He pointedly unlocks the safety on his firearm with a dramatic flourish of his coat. Still a drama queen, then. 

John lifts his own gun and follows Sherlock as the lift doors open onto the sixty-ninth floor of the office building. The view would be impressive if they had the time, but a young girl’s life hangs in the balance. Every successfully solved task brings them one step closer to saving Cherise. 

They split up to look for evidence. John is still paging through a file that looks promising when Sherlock returns – his gun lowered. John is immediately suspicious. 

“Don’t move, Doctor Watson!” 

Great, it’s their target. And she’s holding a knife to a younger man. If asked, however, John couldn’t pinpoint who looks more scared by the turn of events. 

“Miss Aldridge was incredibly clever, John,” Sherlock admits. He sounds perfectly sincere. “Made me remove the ammunition clip. I’m defenceless. It’s like Gottle o’ geer all over again.”

Gottle o’ geer. John used to hear it in his nightmares – it’s one of the things Moriarty made him say while he was wearing semtex at the pool. Sherlock referencing it… He’s just reading off a script. He’s not defenceless. Miss Aldridge probably forgot about the bullet in the cartridge.

So John lays down his weapon and raises his arms without complaint. Sherlock’s face doesn’t change, but the banker starts herding them back to the lift. In doing so, she pulls back the knife when readjusting her grip – the moment Sherlock has been waiting for. 

Miss Aldridge suffers a bullet wound to the leg as well as some bruises from John restraining her. The young man – her assistant – proves rather helpful in locating evidence. 

“You did well,” Sherlock says once the chap has run off to check the cabinets. “Rather clever deduction.”

“Oh, high praise,” John chuckles. “How come we don’t have a code word for that yet? Lying through your teeth to appease some low-life git? We’ve got so many already.”

“Are you able to remember one more?” Sherlock challenges with a smirk. 

“Oi, my memory is stellar.”

“Last week, you asked Mike Stamford how his girlfriend Patricia is doing. Even I remember their breakup, and I deleted it twice already.”

“Prick,” John says but there is no heat behind it. The grin isn’t helping either. “You know what I mean.”

Sherlock apparently does. There is a twinkle in his eye and a smile tugging at his lips. “Then so it shall be.” 

“Cut it out, lads,” Greg interrupts. His tone is harsh and John reminds himself that they still have several tasks ahead of them before they can get to Cherise. “We found another set of instructions, so shoo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ending on a high note this time :) Hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	6. Distortion Field

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gave me very heavy Mycroft feels. And Sherlock feels. And John feels. Just… warning for feels, folks. :)
> 
> Useful to know for this chapter: In the UK, you don’t have to wait 48 hours to file a missing persons report.

They don’t save Cherise. 

John wants to shout and rage at the unfairness of it but the words get stuck in his throat.

She dies in an explosion, even though Sherlock solved all of Moriarty’s puzzles. 

“Yes, Sherlock. Good job. But still too slow… I know you’ve got it in you, Sherlock. You can do better. What kind of nemesis would I be if didn’t encourage you to grow? Well, honey… Here’s some incentive.”

He triggers the C4. 

The second video feed cuts out and becomes nothing but static. Sherlock sinks to the damp ground of the flooded cellar, burying his head in his hands as John tries to come to terms with the fact that the entire country was watching them fail. Moriarty somehow gained access to every telly screen in the UK and broadcast the big final act. 

The sight of the rising sun has never filled John with so much dread. 

*

Cherise’s family asks them not to attend the memorial service on Halloween. 

It’s almost a blessing in disguise since Sherlock has locked himself into his room upon their return to Baker Street and has been playing the violin ever since. John calls Mycroft about a possible danger night, but the man is two steps ahead. 

“The flat is under constant surveillance, John. No one will sneak in to deliver substances of any kind.”

He moves to the window to peer past the curtains. “They sure got great cover right now.”

Photographers and journalists surround the flat like vultures circling a cadaver. The last thing John wants is to walk past them but he must, or else he would miss his appointments with Mary in the maximum security facility. 

At twenty-three weeks, she’s starting to show. 

“Do you want to feel it?” she asks. 

“It?”

“I didn’t want to find out the gender without you, my love.”

John can tell where this is going. There is a strange pressure on his chest. “Why don’t we let it be a surprise?” he rasps, hoping it sounds smoother than it did in his head. 

“But how will you decorate the nursery?” 

John swallows. “Well, we shouldn’t try to squeeze our child into stereotypes, wouldn’t you say?”

He’s afraid he’s bolloxing this up, but Mary buys into his sudden preoccupation with gender neutral childcare. Whatever pills they prescribe for her here to keep her docile must be miracle drugs. 

A wide grin blooms on Mary’s face then. “It kicked! Come on, darling, feel it!” 

Curiosity wins out. John complies after signalling the guard outside the door and is rewarded with a strong kick from his child. 

Later, with a glass of the Black Label he talked Mrs Hudson into buying for him and against the backdrop of melancholy violin music, John considers his options. Somehow, suddenly, the entire shambles has become very, very real. 

Baker Street doesn’t have the space for a child. 

Not in their current arrangement, that is. 

For several bittersweet moments, John indulges in a fantasy in which he is allowed to share Sherlock’s bed. He can see it perfectly: the kid playing with the skull, Sherlock trying to teach the periodic table with matching building blocks, John watching from the exact same chair he is currently sitting on. 

It’s just that, though – a fantasy. An illusion that shatters as soon as John opens his eyes in the real 221B. 

*

Sherlock doesn’t emerge from his room over the next few days. He’s either lying on the bed or standing by the window, unmoving, or playing the violin for hours on end. John makes sure he has a steady supply of tea to keep him somewhat hydrated and leaves sandwiches with him, which grow stale five times out of six. 

It’s driving John sparse – though that might have also been due to all the calls and emails he has to struggle through to filter out actual cases. 

“And these vampires are still outside with their flashes and microphones,” John complains as he sets down another cup of tea on Monday morning. “Speedy’s is doing well, so that’s nice, but what’s so bloody hard to understand about ‘no comment’? At least we get some positive fan mail. Actual mail, too, it’s in the living room if you want proof that not everybody hates us for what happened. Oh, and I got a few offers from some brands, they want to pay me to mention them on my blog. Like I’d blog about which kind of pasta I buy, Jesus…”

It’s futile. Sherlock refuses to react in any recognisable way.

Janine even drops by for a visit, a tin of homemade biscuits in her hands, though her presence has no effect whatsoever. John could say he doesn’t feel viciously satisfied about it, but that would be a lie. 

Janine is worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “Shouldn’t we call someone? That can’t be good for him.”

“It’s not the first time. His current record is fifteen days,” John says, trying not to think of that Adler woman. “We’re only on day five.”

Janine still looks worried, but eventually she defers to his judgement.

She pauses with her hand on the doorknob. “We’re going for drinks this Thursday,” she says. “Would you like to join us?”

“Yeah, and get accosted by every dickhead in the city?” 

Janine seems to concede the point but somehow fails to explain who the ‘we’ is she’s referring to and why John could be interested in joining them. 

*

Guy Fawkes Night passes without incident or change. 

John barely sleeps that night, expecting… he can’t really say. Something, at least. But Thursday dawns without catastrophe descending on Baker Street. John treats his visit to Mary with suspicion, yet even she doesn’t lose a word to reminisce on the past. 

“We should start thinking about names, John. It’d be easier if we knew the gender,” she adds pointedly. “But I always liked Rosamund. What do you think?” 

John swallows. He can taste bile. “Katherine.”

Mary hums. “And for a boy? Hamish?” She snorts before John can react. “No, we don’t want to be that mean, do we?”

That night, the sound of Sherlock’s violin comes as a welcome distraction. So much so, in fact, that John doesn’t hear a key unlock the front door downstairs. It’s only Anthea who materialises in 221B, though. 

Well, Anthea with an absolutely mental proposition. 

“I’m not going to go on some damn talk show!” John tells her. He might be more imposing standing across from her if she weren’t taller than him. 

“The host agreed to the talking points we specified; there will be no untoward questions. I brought the script, in case you wish to take a look.”

“No.”

“Mycroft insists.”

“Mycroft and his insistence can bugger off.” 

“John,” Anthea tries in tone clearly meant to be mollifying, “this is an issue of grave importance.”

“If this is so bloody important, why isn’t he here in person then, hm?”

“He’s currently in Brussels.” 

“Brussels?” John echoes. There was something on the telly earlier. “At that summit? But that ended –”

“I’m not at liberty to say,” Anthea interrupts smoothly, ignoring his curiosity. “Now, John. May I schedule you for the interview?”

“Ha, still no.”

“I’ll leave the script,” she says, placing the folder on the pile of fan mail on the cluttered coffee table. “Read it. You can always change your mind.”

John glares. “I won’t.”

The resulting staring match doesn’t last particularly long, either because Anthea can tell that John’s not backing down about this or because she decided there are better uses for their time. 

“The report?” she prompts. 

John retrieves the disc from his laptop, labelled with the specified code in his scrawl. The Secret Service requires a written report after every single one of John’s visits since Mary’s stipulation forbids them from recording their meetings. Said report is then fed into the vast intelligence machine his country is operating while the physical disc becomes a meal for the shredder. 

“Anything out of the ordinary?” 

“You know, you could always just read it,” John says, but his dry remark also goes ignored. “Something about three mercenaries. Brothers. Name’s Garrideb – hope that helps. And, well… Mary wants us to have a scan. Find out if it’s a boy or girl.”

Anthea regards him. “Shall I arrange an appointment?”

The thought of Mary cooing over ultrasound readouts, pretending they’re living in a bubble of marital bliss… John can’t suppress the shudder that image evokes. 

Anthea acknowledges his decision with a brief nod before taking the second folder underneath her tablet and holding it out to John. He accepts it with a weary frown. It contains a little over thirty pages in packs of three, neatly stapled together. Property listings, background on the respective neighbourhoods, OFSTED reports about suitable nurseries, evaluations. 

John’s eyes flicker up to meet Anthea’s. “Mycroft’s way of telling me to sod off?”

“Mycroft didn’t order this. I did.” 

“These don’t have prices.”

That receives a genuine smile from the woman. “Whatever might we deduce from that?”

John blinks, dropping his eyes back to the contents of the folder. His conclusions would mean that somehow Anthea has acquired enough authority to get the government to fund a house for him and his child. 

“You’re just a PA,” is what John says. 

Anthea merely smirks before taking her leave. John stares after her. Whatever this means, it doesn’t sit well with him. And ignoring the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach has never served him well. 

*

He reads the talking points. Tries to imagine himself sitting in a chair surrounded by studio lights with a lapel mic underneath his jumper, explaining that yes, his wife turned out to be an assassin and that no, she’s not a threat anymore. 

He’d rather face Moriarty in a gun fight while armed with nothing but a butter knife. 

Sod this. If Mycroft’s goal is to appease the public with the truth and he wants John to be his mouthpiece, he’s going to do it on his own terms. 

So John clicks on “New blog entry” and starts to type. 

He keeps his account as factual as possible but doesn’t paint Mary in a better light than she deserves. He doesn’t downplay Moriarty’s insanity and the danger this brings with it. What he does, however, is give his opinion on the panic-mongering that’s apparently become the media’s new favourite past-time, and the lack of seriousness among… well, pretty much everybody.

> _I can’t see how Moriarty memes are funny. I can’t see how manips of what Moriarty’s walk-in cupboard might look like are funny. I’m glad parody videos[are now legal](https://www.theguardian.com/politics/2014/oct/01/david-cameron-v-eminem-conservative-conference-rap-i-am-disgusted-by-the-poor), but as far as I’m concerned, parody is supposed to criticise something and cutting Moriarty’s recordings to “I’m Bad” isn’t doing anything. I don’t understand why this “Surprise!” gif is now the new default reaction on the internet. In fact I twitch every time I see his face. That’s the bloke who blew up a nursing home a few years ago. You’re taking the most dangerous criminal we’ve ever had to deal with, who can rig juries and fake deaths and bring down governments, and you’re turning him into a punch line._

John publishes to the sound of a wistful melody drifting through Sherlock’s bedroom door at two o’clock in the morning, his bones heavy and his eyes drooping.

Of course that’s when Harry’s number appears on his lock screen.

John has half a mind to just ignore it, pretend he’s out on a case with his phone muted, to protect himself from yet another codswallop… Though no matter how little they get on, she’s still his sister. 

“Yeah?” he says into the receiver. 

“Hiya John, this is Janine, I’m on Harry’s phone.”

John is instantly alert. 

“She hurt her hand and she’s refusing to go to A&E, said she’ll only let you take a look, I’m sorry to bother you this late but she’s really worked up.”

“Janine?”

“The one and only!” There is the dull beat of club music in the background. “Surely Harry mentioned – oh! Is that why you looked so lost the other day?” Janine chuckles but then finally sheds some light on this weird situation. “Harry’s working for Seb and we’ve become friends, sort of – oh, right, she calls me Ji-Ji, I always forget. Or deny, really, it’s a silly nickname. Can you come, John? Please, she’s really upset.”

John has a twenty-minute cab ride into the city centre to process the new information, to calm down and stifle the panic rising in his chest. He distracts himself with googling Moran’s company and lands on the tongue-in-cheek page of “Moranic”. They have government contracts, too. _Jesus._

His destination, the Gideon, is the type of club John imagines Sherlock frequented once upon a time during his cocaine benders, at least based on Greg’s sparse stories. Sleek lines, posh, attractive people, expensive drinks and an atmosphere that makes John’s skin itch. The bouncer is silently judging John even as he lets him enter – Janine or Moran must have told him to – and he tracks down his sister as quickly as possible.

He finds her, along with Janine and Moran, in the manager’s office. All have dressed to impress: Janine chose a bold green dress, Moran opted for just shirt and waistcoat hugging his muscular frame, and Harry donned a pair of trousers that might as well have been painted on. They would have driven their father mental. 

“Danny had to leave,” Harry pouts. “I wanted you to meet him. You’ll like him, Johnny, he’s really handsome and smart.”

John breathes in deeply to calm his racing pulse. 

Moran’s smirk is insufferable. 

John wants to punch it off his daft face. 

“Your sister is a brilliant graphic designer, Captain Watson,” Moran says after John shushed Harry’s rant about unskilled waiters who drop champagne flutes in people’s laps and applies bandages from the first-aid kit. “You must be so proud. Is she helping you pay the rent? I own property in Marylebone; I’m aware of the steep prices.”

“No need,” John manages through gritted teeth. 

“Oh, I wasn’t aware solving crimes paid so handsomely,” Moran sneers. “Do you get half, or is your share proportional to the amount of help you provide?”

John ignores him. He doesn’t tell him about the joint account, set up years ago when they first started taking payment, doesn’t mention Sherlock never concerns himself with finances and contends himself with giving John free reign. 

“You should call it a night, Harry.” John makes sure to keep any reproachful inflection from his tone. “Or don’t you have to work tomorrow?”

“She’s working now,” Moran laughs. His laugh is as obnoxious as his face. 

John gives him a flat look. 

Moran’s grin gains a vicious edge. “We’re celebrating, Captain Watson. You know, that thing you do when you succeed? You should remember that. From what I heard, Sherlock knows how to have a good time.”

John raises his fist, but he doesn’t get much farther than that since a giggling Harry places her hand on his forearm, stopping him. 

“Don’t listen to him, Johnny – he’s a moron!”

“Should you be saying that about your boss? In his presence?” Moran points out, but Janine slaps his arm playfully. 

“Like you’re going to do anything about it.” To John, she says, “No worries – he needs her more than she needs him.”

Looking at his sister now, off her tits on expensive liquor after she’d been doing so well for a while, John can’t emphasise that enough. 

“Come on, Captain Watson, allow me to buy you a drink.”

“Not interested,” John all but snaps back. 

Moran raises his hands but his smile doesn’t waver. “I wasn’t implying anything untoward.”

John feels his nostrils flare. Thankfully, Janine pulls him towards the exit before he can translate his violent impulses into bloody reality. 

“How’s Sherl?”

John forces an exhale. “Found the tin you brought empty yesterday. Got two cups of tea into him this morning. I think he’s getting better.”

“Aw, brilliant,” Janine beams. “Danny will be thrilled; the bastard’s an amazing baker. I’ll drop by tomorrow, all right? We’ve got a meeting in the afternoon, but after that I’m free. I’ll bring another tin. Can’t have our favourite detective starve to death, now, can we?”

The ‘we’ and ‘our’ grates on John’s nerves. “That’s… good,” he manages before escaping Janine and the pompous Gideon. 

Cold air fills his lungs like a revelation. John takes a moment to swallow down the anger he refuses to name the cause of and massages the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut against the night. 

The sound of slowing tires makes his head snap up. 

John checks his messages – there are two missed calls from Mycroft and a text. 

_[04:07 AM] Get in the car._

Back on English soil and rather miffed, he concludes. Just what John’s night needed. 

*

As expected, Mycroft is not amused. That John is chuckling at his own joke in the middle of the man’s sitting room might not be helping matters. 

“Feeling mature this week, are we? What’s next – a YouTube channel?” 

John merely smirks. Anger seems to be simmering right underneath Mycroft’s skin. 

“You know, John, for a while I thought you were stood apart from the hoi polloi, but apparently you are nothing but an ordinary goldfish after all.” 

“I’m sorry, did I cock up your PR strategy?” John shoots back, still grinning. 

“Do you realise how hypocritical it was, criticising everybody’s memes and whatnot, by means of the very medium they are employing as well? Your words could have carried meaning, John –”

“If I’d delivered them on a stage in front of cameras with you whispering in my ear?” John snorts. “Sorry, mate. Not doing that again. You should’ve known better, Mycroft. I thought you were the smart one.”

“I am the smart one.” There is a vein in Mycroft’s neck that is starting to stand out. 

John tries not to look too smug about winding him up, but that turns out to be fighting a lost battle.

“While I tend to think five moves ahead in every area of concern, John, you are by far not the only issue on my agenda.”

“ _Issue?_ ”

“Yes,” Mycroft snaps, removing his hands from his trouser pockets and taking a step towards John as he continues, “an issue. Your world may revolve around my dear brother and his nemesis, yet mine is situated in a wider universe, one where failure translates into tragic outcomes of a bigger scope than the insignificant, albeit unfortunate, loss of an internet celebrity. Moriarty tends to distract from the bigger picture, John, a fallacy I cannot afford to fall prey to.”

“Insignificant?” John growls, hands balling into fists at his sides. “That’s an innocent girl who’s now dead because you lot somehow still haven’t managed to put a bullet through that git’s brain.”

“Matters aren’t so simple.”

“Oh?” John growls. “I’ve got a hard time believing that.” 

“I do not care what you believe, Doctor Watson.” 

Mycroft draws himself up to his full height then, attempting to look intimidating. John almost laughs in his face – hasn’t he read his military record? – but then notes how knackered the man looks under his put-upon show of strength. The sort of exhaustion that settles deep in your bones and makes every movement a colossal task. 

“Something’s going on,” John states. Suspicion coils around his spine even as he sees the line of Mycroft’s shoulders tense. “Something you’re not telling me. Your brother’s gone selectively mute for days and you don’t show up like the overbearing arse that you are? Almost like you’re actively keep–”

“You’re nothing but a pawn in this game of chess,” Mycroft spits, his usual air of decorum gone as he talks over John. “Remember your place and everything will be fine.”

He should probably feel insulted, but John’s mind latches onto the metaphor instead. 

“Chess,” he echoes. “With whom?” 

Mycroft’s eyes widen ever so slightly – he’s on to something. 

“Seriously, who? And why’s it keeping you away from Sherlock? Or… is that to protect him?”

In that moment, he knows in his gut that he’s right. Yeah, he doesn’t see the entire board, not like Sherlock would, but he’s beginning to piece it together. 

Mycroft remains quiet for a very long time. Eventually he sighs. It sounds like the weight of the world is resting on his shoulders – and maybe it is. 

“Doctor Watson, if you truly care about my brother as deeply as I suspect you do, you will not mention what just transpired to anyone, ever. You will not investigate any suspicions you might have. You will keep it to yourself until such a moment in time that the truth of the matter becomes evident. Do I have your word?”

Mycroft’s tone is tender, probably as close to pleading as the man is capable of. John’s mouth is dry, his heart beating in his throat. 

He wants to make a quip but the look in Mycroft’s eyes stops him. 

“You do,” is John’s response, firm and sincere. 

Mycroft returns to his office without another glance. 

* 

John walks home. It doesn’t clear his head but it calms him down enough that the uneasy feeling in his chest loosens.

He watches the squirrels in St James’s Park until the sun has risen fully, then passes through Hyde Park and watches people instead. Ordinary people, going about their ordinary lives. To think, once upon a time, John thought nothing ever happened to him. 

He rings Mrs Hudson to make sure someone pesters Sherlock about tea and breakfast before he gets his own. He is wiping crumbs off his hands when the call comes. Janine sounds haggard. 

“How’d you get this number?”

“Is Harry with you?” There’s a nervous quiver in her tone. 

“Why?”

“We have to pull the meeting forward and she needs to be there, but she’s not answering her phone or the landline, John. I’m really worried. I’m on my way into the office so I can’t check on her – would you mind?”

“You work there, too?”

“Just sometimes,” Janine dismisses. Not the first time she omitted information, John registers underneath his mounting concern. “Please? She was in a bad state when she left.”

John agrees. In fact, he’s already turning around to get the SIS agent on his tail to give him a ride to Harry’s flat. In the backseat of the sleek car, he dials a number he only ever made use of on one other occasion. John still remembers the condolence card it was written on, a sincere apology above. Donovan managed to deal with her guilt and moved on, unlike some of her colleagues. 

Fortunately, her voice is more worried than annoyed when she picks up. “Watson?”

“I need a favour. Are you at work?”

“No, it’s my day off –”

“I need you to access the Met’s data bases from your laptop.” 

“Why – what’s going on? Why aren’t you calling Lestrade?”

“It’s about Harry. Might have gone missing. Damn, I’m almost hoping she’s on a bender.”

A resigned sigh. John can tell she wants to tell him to toss off, but she doesn’t. “I’ll check if anyone brought her in.”

He’ll have to buy her a pint later on. Or catnip, given the meows in the background as Donovan pulls up the respective records. Harry hasn’t been arrested, charged or thrown into a holding cell. 

“Ta. I’m almost at her flat.” John can’t suppress a chuckle at the irony of the situation. “Never thought I’d be hoping to find her passed out in her own vomit.”

Donovan hums. “You’re letting her suck you in again,” she points out. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Oh, no, it’s a horrible idea,” John agrees. “But…” He clears his throat. “She’s my sister.”

Donovan is silent for a moment. When she speaks again, her tone is hard but understanding. “I used to say the same thing. About… about my brother. Kept running when he called, almost screwed up my career trying to do the right thing… until he sold off my car and stole all my cash. You’ve got to protect yourself, John. One addict in your life’s enough.”

“Ta,” he snorts, shaking his head as he gets out of the car. 

“Just saying it. Someone has to.”

John’s steps falter. “No, it’s… thanks.”

“Keep me posted, you hear? And call me if you need a badge to ease the way.”

Now he definitely owes her a pint. 

Seeing as he doesn’t have a key, John circles around the old residential building until he finds a way to sneak in – bribing the cleaning staff may be boring, but it gets him into the staircase he remembers practically carrying Harry up. He is careful to tilt his head away from the surveillance camera in the hallway, pretending the lock picking kit in his breast pocket is actually his keys. 

Sherlock once offered to teach him, only to blink owlishly when John revealed he had long since mastered that particular skill. 

“Oh, I see. Your mother’s tendency to –” Sherlock had begun, but a clipped “Don’t,” from John cut off any deductions being said out loud. It’s annoying enough that Sherlock knows all about John’s parents without being told; no need for him to dwell on it. 

The flat seems unchanged. No signs of struggle. No blood or other bodily fluids. 

No Harry, either. 

Cursing under his breath, John starts looking closer. _Observing_ , a voice in his head murmurs, but he ignores the renewed flare of worry. Maybe Mrs Hudson will get through to Sherlock today. 

John almost steps on it. 

Harry’s mobile. A shiny, newer model, edges and power outlet already marred with scratches. 

Dread pools like lead in John’s stomach. 

She wouldn’t leave her phone behind, is the thing, not on the floor like this. She mentioned Instagram and Snapchap and Twitter when John collected her from the station, just in passing in the car, but it’s enough to make alarm bells chime in John’s mind. 

“Found her?” Donovan answers after the second ring. 

“No, but I found her phone. I’ll see if there’re any clues.”

“I’ll file a missing person report.”

“Text me if you need more information,” John tells her, then narrows his eyes at the phone. 

Harry’s lock screen background shows some ad campaign – probably one she helped design – and her password… is not her birthday. John tries her wedding day, and once that fails the day of the divorce. 

“You’re actually over Clara, hm,” John mutters as the phone unlocks. 

He’s not a boffin like Sherlock, he can’t call up her GPS data or anything fancy like that, but what he can do is check her photos for anything suspicious. A few blurry pictures that wankers like Moran would probably call ‘artistic’ of the Gideon; Janine and Moran, arm in arm; another one of Harry and Janine and a group shot of four – right, she said that Danny bloke had to leave – taken from behind the bar: Moran on the left pressed close against Janine, next to Harry who has her arm around…

John drops the phone as though it had caught fire. 

Moriarty. 

Harry has her arm around James Moriarty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *exchanges high-fives with Jim and cackles*
> 
> PS: I'd love to supply the memes etc. I mentioned in this chapter, but I don't art or photoshop very well.


	7. Catalyst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RL became a tad busy, so finding time to write was a bit of a challenge. But here we are, gearing up for the grand finale!
> 
> And fyi, this verse differs hugely from canon when it comes to the Holmes sister. You’ll be the judge of which version you prefer :)

John practically flies through the front door to 221 and up the stairs, almost colliding with Mrs Hudson who shouts something after him about another attempt at tea. 

Inside the flat, he sees why: a lonesome tray sits outside the door to Sherlock’s room. 

John shoves it aside, pulls the handle – locked. His veins feel like they’re on fire. 

“Sherlock!” John calls. “Open up! I’m not doing this for a bloody giggle, it’s an emergency!”

After shouting, he tries banging on the door. 

“He’s in a right strop, poor Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson says amidst the clinking of china. “Pleaded with him for ages this morning but he wouldn’t come out.”

John rounds on her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Well, it’s hardly the first time!” 

She makes to continue but John doesn’t have the nerve to listen. “I’ll pay for the damage.”

“I – what damage?”

John’s right shoulder is already colliding with the door. Mrs Hudson gasps, horrified, but John doesn’t pay her any heed. The material around the lock gives out at the third assault and John crashes into Sherlock’s bedroom. 

It’s chaos, clothes and papers strewn everywhere, no trace of the sock index left in the drawers. But Sherlock is there, in one piece, huddled in the corner. John lets out the breath he didn’t realise he was holding. When he takes a closer look at the apathetic state his flatmate is in, though, it turns out to have been premature. 

“Sherlock?” he says as softly as he can. 

Sherlock doesn’t react, at least not visibly. He’s in sleeping trousers and one of his older cotton T-shirts as well as a camel-coloured dressing gown. The threadbare fabric of his tee has visible sweat stains on it and the usually lush curls are sticking to Sherlock’s skin. His posture is defensive – almost as if he’s hiding from something. 

“Oh Lord…” Mrs Hudson moves into the room, gasping when she sees Sherlock. “Oh my, is he all right?”

John approaches tentatively, inching closer and expecting a fuss, but he manages to take Sherlock’s pulse without a problem. It’s racing and his skin is clammy. At least his pupils are reactive. Regardless of what else is going on, John reasons, Sherlock is definitely dehydrated. 

He places his left hand on Sherlock’s shoulder (for medical reasons) while he dials Mycroft’s number with his right. It’s Anthea who answers. 

“Mycroft’s phone.” 

“Get him,” John orders. 

“He’s in a meeting and cannot –”

“I don’t give _a single fuck_ right now,” John barks, much to Mrs Hudson’s dismay. Sherlock doesn’t seem to hear him, which only adds another layer of urgency to the situation. “His brother’s been… I’m not sure, given something, and I need supplies at Baker Street right this very second.”

Anthea doesn’t budge regarding Mycroft but she has the requested supplies delivered within fifteen minutes. By then, John has long since manhandled Sherlock onto the bed and removed the dressing gown. There are about ten different jokes on the tip of his tongue but with his friend unconscious, they strike him as rather pointless. 

“You don’t think… Is it drugs?” Mrs Hudson whispers upon her return with a glass of water. 

John shakes his head and points to the exposed crooks of Sherlock’s elbows. “No track marks.”

He slips from the bed so Mrs Hudson can try and get some fluids into the man. John’s eyes sweep the room, hoping for a clue, anything… 

He finds a photograph, lying face-down on the carpet underneath a pile of notes containing complex formulas in Sherlock’s scrawl. The edges have yellowed and become dog-eared over the years. John flips it over. The image seems official, showing a family of five. Four of them are familiar. 

The parents are Mr and Mrs Holmes – John only saw them once, but the fact that a miniature Sherlock is standing right in front of them is a dead giveaway. The chubby boy must be Mycroft, but John is at a loss to explain the presence of the little girl. Her features have an uncanny resemblance to the older brother and she seems to be about the same age. 

“Doctor Watson?”

John glances up. A bland SIS agent is carrying the IV bags and the rest of the supplies. 

Folding the photo, he pockets it and returns to Sherlock’s bedside. 

*

The walls have cracks, running deep and destructive along the halls of his mind palace. Redbeard barks and whines at every creak that echoes overhead.

There is a faceless woman following Sherlock about like a shadow. Try as he might, she remains outside his reach, her blue dress slipping between his fingers. He feels like he used to know her. He used to know many things but now, surrounded by his crumbling palace, he can’t even remember the way out. 

_Sherlock!_

At least John is still in his mind palace. He had been afraid he had up and left just like Mycroft… 

*

Awareness returns in increments, via mending cracks and familiar paths and the echo of a touch against his skin. 

John materialises, his mind palace’s version, arms crossed above the maroon cardigan Sherlock really likes. 

“You’ve been drugged.” 

Sherlock’s synapses feel rusted. It takes him far too long to figure it out. 

“The biscuits. Janine said… her friend Danny baked them.” 

John nods. “Intent?”

“Incapacitate me.”

“Which means…?”

Sherlock gulps. “Something is going to happen.”

The John in his mind palace smiles. “And you need to get a bloody move on.”

Sherlock smiles back. 

He opens his eyes. 

“Sherlock?” 

John’s voice. Like the first breath after near asphyxiation. 

“Miss me?” Sherlock quips, which earns him something that is half laugh, half annoyed grunt. 

“We all did, you prick. Let me check your pupils.” 

The light is bright but his reaction appears satisfactory. Sherlock makes to remove the needle of the IV but John’s hand on his bare forearm stops him. Sherlock barely hears the reason why John wants to keep it in – his attention has narrowed to the places of contact. 

“Donovan called; said she’s a no-show at the agency.” Lestrade’s voice, in a tone that suggests he only just started on the case. “And Mycroft’s men are checking CCTV city-wide.”

Only then Sherlock notices how many people there are in his room. Mrs Hudson is tidying up his socks – in the correct order, much to his surprise – while John is taking his blood pressure with his torso angled to Lestrade in the door next to the least incompetent assistant Mycroft has ever hired. 

“Who’s missing?” Sherlock asks, sitting up on top of the duvet. “Apart from my dressing gown?”

“I needed to examine you,” John explains, making Lestrade’s eyebrows rise. “And it’s Harry. Turns out the fourth Musketeer in her new group of friends is Moriarty. The others are Janine and Sebastian Moran, by the way.”

“Did Moriarty go by ‘Danny’?”

John’s eyes flick to his. “How’d you know?” 

“The same man made the biscuits Janine gave me.”

“So she’s not involved.” John sounds sceptical. 

“Why would she be involved?” Sherlock scoffs. “Don’t you think I would have noticed if she were under Moriarty’s thumb? It’s not exactly a trivial detail, like the date George went on last night. She’s a great kisser. Or at least he thinks so. Please choose something more riveting for date number two than ‘dinner and a film,” he adds in disgust. “How dull. Take her to the torture museum; she’d enjoy –” 

“Focus,” John cuts in. “My sister is missing and I had to spend an hour counteracting the psychedelics in your system. Now you’re going to pull yourself together and help me find her.” 

Sherlock splutters for a moment, a blush rising up his neck. “May I change first?” 

“Please do,” Lestrade chimes in. “We’ll wait outside.”

“And find my phone!” Sherlock calls after them just before the door shuts. 

He takes a moment to just breathe, in and out, until he feels less like he is coming apart at the seams. A cursory glance around the room reveals nothing of note, not even an empty tin of biscuits, only evidence of how out of it Sherlock was even before Moriarty’s poisoned pudding. Thinking of Cherise still hurts. 

Sherlock slips first into the bathroom to get the traces of sweat off his skin, then into trousers and a black shirt and jacket. When he emerges from his room, every pair of eyes in the living room is immediately on him. John’s face is grim. Something happened. 

Wordlessly, John holds out Sherlock’s phone. Their fingers touch as Sherlock accepts it. 

Among the hundreds of missed calls, emails, texts and notifications, the very last one stands out: a picture, taken in a darkened room. Janine, tied to a chair with thick rope, squeezing her eyes shut as Moriarty kisses her temple, one hand curled around her neck. 

It’s the lower third of a sign in the upper right corner, however, that transforms Sherlock’s mind into a hurricane. 

“They’re at Catalyst Hall,” he concludes, “a shelter in Twickenham. Defunct now after severe arson in 2013.”

“Why there?”

He meets John’s quizzical gaze even though the last thing he wants is to divulge details on that particular time in his life. “I used to be a… a guest there.”

To his merit, John merely meets his statement with a nod. “It feels like a trap.”

“Oh, it most certainly is,” Sherlock agrees, retrieving his Belstaff. 

No additional words are necessary. 

*

Catalyst Hall is a mere shadow of itself. Especially underneath the overcast sky the three-storey building lacks any of its former appeal. 

As if thinking along similar lines, John wonders, “Why here? There must have been shelters closer to the city.” 

Sherlock is tempted to ignore the question, but after ignoring _John_ for the better part of a week, people like Lestrade would say he owes John something.

“I thought I had friends here, for a while.”

John licks his lips but doesn’t enquire further. 

Their entourage consists of eleven of New Scotland Yard’s finest – and Donovan, for reasons that currently elude Sherlock – as well as five of Mycroft’s Suits With Guns. The closer they get to the fence warding off the modest garden in front of Catalyst Hall, the more Sherlock’s skin tingles. The _ping_ of his text alert brings relief, as well as instructions to leave his attack dogs at the door. 

“Sherlock,” Lestrade warns, but falls silent at a look. 

He is the only one to protest their departure.

“Huh. Would’ve thought the spooks would argue,” John muses, cocking an obvious eyebrow at Sherlock even as he pulls the gate open. 

Sherlock moves past him. “I outrank them. If Mycroft didn’t tell them to ignore me, they have to follow my orders if they don’t want me to drag them in front of the disciplinary committee. Again. Always fun – maybe I should provoke them.”

“You have a _rank_.”

Sherlock stops with his hand on the door knob to aim a smirk at the other man. John’s tone had an impressed tinge. Sherlock clings to it through the onslaught of memories that assaults him the moment he crosses over the threshold. 

He never deleted the building’s layout, so it’s barely any challenge to plan a route that won’t leave them too vulnerable to surprise attacks as well as take them to the rooms most likely to be used for hostages first. John follows his lead without hesitation or question, causing something warm to unfurl inside Sherlock’s chest. 

The hallways are void of any cameras, traps or wires, yet the fact does nothing to assuage them. 

They discover Harriet first, handcuffed to a radiator. Her dirty blonde hair is falling down in limp strands and her grey eyes lack the depth and complexity Sherlock has grown accustomed to from John, yet they are clearly siblings. Years of alcohol abuse have left their mark on her skin, however, and she is showing the first signs of withdrawal.

“Johnny,” she coughs. Dry throat – no water since her capture, Sherlock surmises. “Knew you’d come for me, you minger.”

“Harry,” John breathes in relief, rushing to her side. 

“Come on, Johnny-boy… say it.”

John purses his lips at her watery smile. 

“Say it,” she insists, and John rolls his eyes. 

“Cor, bint.”

“Fascinating,” escapes Sherlock, and two Watsons look up with identical tilts of their heads. 

“It’s our nicknames,” Harry rasps. Then, to her brother, “You said he’s smart.”

It has been far too long since Sherlock heard John give a full-bellied laugh, and it’s definitely worth the blush colouring his cheeks. Even more so when the outward proof of Sherlock’s embarrassment only makes John laugh harder. 

He sobers quickly, however. “We have to get you out of here.”

“Janine –”

“We’ll find her,” John promises. “Let’s get you out of these first.”

Sherlock watches John pick the handcuff’s lock and free his sister’s wrist, cataloguing the subtle shifts in body language. His initial deduction about their strained relationship is thrown into even starker relief through hesitation in John's touches and the stiffness of his spine as he helps her up. 

They circle back to the entrance hall, shielding Harry as well as they can, even guide her to the gate in case Moriarty has snipers in place. John passes Harry off to Donovan who seems oddly familiar with the woman – does she notice Harriet is flirting with her? 

He files it away to deduce later. There is a trap waiting to be sprung, after all. 

They find Janine inside what used to be the common area, a large space with high windows and a door hidden behind an alcove that leads out onto the terrace. Janine is still tied to that chair, rope chafing her wrists and ankles. 

“Oh, thank God,” she gasps. 

“Not quite,” Sherlock points out. 

“And that’s as modest as he gets.” 

Janine laughs at John’s joke. “As long as he gets me out of these, he can be as modest as he wants.” 

Sherlock flashes a smile, replaces his Browning in his hip holster, and fulfils Janine’s wish. The ensuing hug comes as a surprise. 

“Thank you, Sherl,” she whispers close to his ear. Sherlock can hear John clearing his throat, which proves a fatal distraction because the next thing he registers is his gun being pulled from its holster. 

The hammer clicks as Janine holds the gun to Sherlock's head. 

People really need to stop doing that. 

John growls, grip on his Sig tightening. He seems to be sharing Sherlock's sentiment, along with the confusion. 

“Drop your weapon,” Janine demands. Its only effect is John’s anger evolving into fury. “Now, John.” 

He complies after a beat. Sherlock hopes his eyes convey the ‘It’s fine’ he is trying to project even as his mind is galloping on three roads simultaneously. Janine? It doesn’t make sense. 

Beside him, the woman relaxes a fraction. “You can come out now!”

Moriarty’s laughter sounds through the shelter before the man himself appears, bespoke suit and bright smile firmly in place. Sherlock can feel the colour drain from his features.

“Oh, your face, Sherlock!” Jim sniggers, glee evident in everything from his posture to his tone. “Bet you didn’t see that coming, did you? Too happy to have a friend... save the damsel in distress…”

“How?” Sherlock stammers. 

Janine smirks. “He’s my foster brother. He gave me the necklace. It was right under your nose and you didn’t realise, mister.” 

Moriarty has reached John by then, whose body is coiled tight, like a predator waiting for his chance to strike. For now, however, he can only stand there as Jim puts an arm around his shoulder, pulling him close. Sherlock envies his composure, how he remains unflinching at the touch. 

“Aw, poor Johnny-boy,” Moriarty drawls. “Once again helpless while the enemy has a gun to your comrade’s head.” Jim leans in closer. “How’s it feel? You’re imagining bashing my brains in now, aren’t you? But you can’t,” he whispers, his face now centimetres away from John’s cheek. 

The blood coursing through Sherlock’s veins turns into red hot fury in an instant. 

John is staring ahead, eyes alight but joints firmly locked.

“You’re too slow, John,” Jim teases, tilting his head. Another minuscule movement and his lips will brush over John's skin. 

“Don’t touch him!” Sherlock bellows.

Jim doubles over with laughter in response. In doing so, the hand around John’s shoulder withdraws – small mercies.

“Oohhh, John Watson, I’m so glad I didn’t have you killed yet,” Moriarty jeers once he has caught his breath. “This was fun, seriously. But I think it’s time, isn’t it? The big show down belongs to Sherlock and me. No third-wheeling this time, Johnny… Even the most loyal dog will die…” Jim lifts his manic eyes to meet Sherlock’s as his voice drops low. “Redbeard.” 

Before Sherlock can react, and with a sickening sense of déjà vu, the red dot of a sniper visor appears on John’s forehead. It’s steady, meaning the sniper is either incredibly good or rather close – or both. John’s eyes search the space behind Sherlock and Janine until he freezes. 

Within listening distance, then. Redbeard was the signal, not just a means to throw Sherlock. 

“Well, John,” Jim says, almost exasperatedly so. “Any last words?” 

_This cannot happen._

Sherlock meets John’s gaze. He sees the determination there, the iron resolve… and he knows exactly what’s coming. 

John lifts his chin. Straightens his spine. “Geronimo.” 

“You’re kidding. No? Bleh, that’s so boring!” Moriarty boos. “No flair at all!”

He clearly doesn’t expect them to explode into movement at the slightest nod of Sherlock’s head, but that's exactly what they do: John ducks to evade the sniper and barrels into Moriarty’s lower abdomen, Sherlock pulls Janine towards him by her gun arm, one knee coming up to punch the air out of her lungs.

A window breaks not far from them but Sherlock focuses on wrestling the gun from Janine’s grip, which earns him a kick to the knee that destabilises him. The gun drops to the ground but the woman is quicker – she sends it across the linoleum floor with the force of her kick.

The unmistakable sound of breaking bone cuts through the room and Sherlock hears Moriarty howl with pain, which then morphs into manic laughter. The need to know why John isn’t occupying Moriarty’s attention anymore outweighs Sherlock's sense of self-preservation, so he spares a glance for the pair only to find they are now three. 

Renewed panic spurs Sherlock on. Janine is out cold moments later. 

Jim has stepped back, letting the sniper completely take over battling John. He is obviously an expert in hand-to-hand combat; the chances of John emerging victorious are slim, yet if Sherlock’s estimate proves correct, they will have backup in three, two, one… 

Lestrade and his men pour in from the main hallway. The commotion distracts the sniper long enough for John to strike by slamming the man against a wall and pulling off his ski mask. 

“You!” John hisses, reeling back. 

Sherlock only catches a fleeting glimpse of Sebastian Moran before Moriarty’s own cavalry arrives. He recognises three of them as the Garrideb brothers from INTERPOL’s most wanted list and quickly sizes up the other fifteen thugs. The conclusion he draws quickens his pulse. There is little chance anyone apart from himself walks out of Catalyst Hall alive, and the latter is only due to Jim’s obsession with him. 

The consulting criminal himself is long gone – the sound of a helicopter engine roaring to life joins the bang of bullets from somewhere outside, presumably the street. 

On the floor, Janine begins to stir. Sherlock scans the pairs of fighters to witness John leaning back to evade a seared blade, which he then turns on the attacker, ramming it between the fifth and the sixth left rib like only an army doctor could.

As if feeling Sherlock’s attention on him, he looks up. 

Sherlock doesn’t know what he is asking of his… his best friend in this moment, whether he is saying ‘goodbye’ or ‘come along’. He leaves it up to John to decide. 

He slips around the alcove and forces the door open with his bare hands since he was unable to snatch a gun from anyone on his covert escape route. He makes sure the helicopter is out of sight before sprinting across the patch of dried-out grass and into the woods that begin just off the property. 

Shielded by a tree, Sherlock pauses. 

The muted footsteps that follow in his wake are the most beautiful thing Sherlock has ever heard in his life, for they are the unmistakable sound of John Watson choosing to join him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw, Sherlock, you're making me swoon... but the real question is: whom did Greg take out to a date?


	8. Running Low On Am(m)o

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray, the name-giving chapter :) It also holds my favourite scene so far. Enjoy!

The blade almost slices into his carotid artery, but John’s opponent has a way of telegraphing his movements that allows him to evade the assault. Three quick moves and it’s John who is directing the weapon. It slips past two ribs with satisfying ease just as a familiar prickling at the base of his neck makes John look up. 

Sherlock’s eyes are already fixed on him, spelling out what has been tugging at the back of his mind ever since Moriarty’s mercenaries showed up – they’re outnumbered. 

Removing the object of Moriarty’s obsession from the battlefield is the obvious solution, but why isn’t Sherlock already – _oh_. 

John’s pulse stutters when the meaning of Sherlock’s hesitance dawns on him. It’s not a choice, though. It’s never a choice when it comes to Sherlock. 

Their situation is buggered to hell, but John can’t help smirking when he holds out the second gun he pinched on his way out to Sherlock when he catches up with him behind the line of trees. 

The detective’s lips curl into a smile. “Good thinking.” 

“Yeah, thought this might come in handy,” John quips in reply, but his heart isn’t really in it. He waits until Sherlock has checked the weapon and started barging forward until he mutters a curse. “Janine? And that wanker Moran? Jesus.” 

“Quite,” Sherlock comments. 

“That’s one long con, Sherlock.” 

The detective remains silent, which does nothing to soothe the turmoil of anger and confusion in John’s head. 

“Why?” 

Sherlock doesn’t reply to that either, but the ‘I don't know’ hangs between them regardless. 

They reach the outskirts of Twickenham, dispose of their mobiles and find an inconspicuous car to steal. When John takes the driver’s seat with determination, Sherlock arches a quizzical eyebrow. 

“I know a place. We’ll be safe there for a bit.” 

“Where?” 

“You’ll see.” 

Sherlock releases an audible breath. He’s preparing for a deduction, John realises with a flash of panic. He needs a distraction. 

“Do you have a sister?” 

Frontal assault. Even with his eyes on the road John catches Sherlock’s flinch. 

He tries to mask it with a scoff. “Of course not.” 

“Explain this then.” 

It takes some fumbling but John manages to produce the folded picture.

There is the smallest tremor in Sherlock’s hands as he opens it, carefully rather than fuelled by curiosity. Blue eyes widen as they take in the family portrait. He must have seen this before. 

Several minutes pass with nothing but the sound of the engine and their breathing. 

“I don’t remember having one.” Sherlock’s voice is soft. “But I think I saw her.”

“Oh?”

“In my mind palace. With Redbeard.”

“Redbeard?” John prompts. “Your…?”

“Dog.” 

It’s amazing how one syllable can convey so much joy and grief. 

“She seems to be Mycroft’s age.”

A nod. 

John is burning to ask but Sherlock’s expression, unguarded and deep in thought, makes him bite his tongue. 

The silence stretches. John drives on, taking them southeast, one eye on his companion and another on his surroundings. At least the petrol was almost full when they picked it up and their destination isn’t too far away from London, but it still takes until after nightfall before they approach the large grounds surrounding the country house. 

It’s only when John gives his name to the security guard manning the gate that Sherlock perks up, his vision clearing. 

“Did you find her?” John asks, then clarifies, “In your mind palace?”

Sherlock’s shoulders are heavy with defeat. “She has no face.” 

John follows the winding path up the hill, gravel crunching underneath their wheels. Sherlock sits up with a start. 

“Whose house is this?”

“What, you mean you can’t deduce that?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “It was bought recently. Old money, most likely. Obviously it belongs to one of your army mates – military influence blatant in the security measures – but you barely talk about your tours, John, and if you do you use these obnoxious nicknames. I lack sufficient data to tell if this is _Big Cheese_ ’s house or _Spotted Dick_ ’s.”

The thought of Spotted Dick, who is actually Gary and the chaviest bloke John’s ever met, living in this mansion is hilarious enough that John forgets his nerves for a moment. 

Sherlock is still looking at him imploringly when he stops laughing. The baroque house towers above them in the moonlight with only three of the twenty-one front windows lit up. John licks his lips as they wind their way up the small hill. 

“It’s the Sholto family estate.”

“You said you hadn’t seen him in years.”

John gives Sherlock a curious look. “Surely there’s better use for that brain space.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“I’m not deflecting,” John argues, but even to his ears it sounded petulant. He sighs, removing one hand from the steering wheel to rub the bridge of his nose. “We kept in touch after the wedding.”

“Hm.”

John hates Sherlock’s hums. 

He can’t find a garage or anything of the like, so John parks the battered Volvo just off the roundel in front of the main doors. The building consists of a vast three-floor baroque monstrosity with extensions from later periods to the side. It would fit John’s childhood home fifteen times… at least. Ignoring the pang of anger, John climbs the stairs with Sherlock right behind him. He can’t make out a bell or a knocker in the dark, though he needn’t have worried: with a creak that has him tense, the doors swing open. 

“Good evening, Captain Watson. Sir will be right with you,” says a butler. 

John feels his jaw clench. “Ta.”

“Why does wealth make you so uncomfortable?” Sherlock asks suddenly. “I noticed it before with wealthy clients like Moran. It’s utterly irrational to resent people for being born into a higher social strata than your family. Besides, you have been accumulating funds yourself over the past years.”

“I’ve worked for it,” escapes John harshly before he can think better of it. 

Sure enough, Sherlock is already opening his mouth, undoubtedly to tell him how flawed his philosophy is, but the sound of footsteps interrupts them. 

James Sholto still looks well, scars notwithstanding, even in (or maybe especially because of) his civilian clothes. The cotton trousers look tailored, the shirt fitted. His dark blue jumper might be cashmere. His expression, however, most certainly is surprise. 

John can’t resist the chance to salute. He hopes that Sherlock misses the spark in James’s eye as the man returns the gesture. 

“John,” he greets. “Sherlock. To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

Sherlock mutters something under his breath. John ignores him. Best to be blunt.

“We’re on the run and needed a safe place to regroup.”

Sholto doesn’t miss a beat, narrowing his eyes. “Moriarty?”

John nods. “We’re low on ammunition and supplies. Could do with some food. And probably a shower, too,” he adds with a snort after glancing at the specks of blood decorating the collar of Sherlock’s shirt and the skin of his neck. 

“We still maintain my father’s armoury. You’re welcome to restock and rest.” James pauses. “And after that?”

They both glance at Sherlock, who feigns surprise and sneers. “Oh, so I do get a say.”

“Come off it, you prick.” 

The resulting pout ticks John off even more but he forces himself to take a deep breath. He’s hungry, thirsty, his bladder is screaming at him and there is still a chance that Moriarty is on their tail – he better not say anything he’ll later regret. 

“Why don’t I show you to the guest rooms?” Sholto interrupts. “The beds have yet to be made up but the bathrooms on the floor are fully functional.”

John is so relieved he doesn’t register the disgruntled look on Sherlock’s face. 

*

The door to the bathroom is equipped with a lock. Sherlock turns the key as soon as he can be sure that Sholto and John are out of earshot. 

He takes two steps forward, three back, turns to the sink, the toilet, spares a glance at the shower. Hell, he would walk up the walls if he could. The swell of sentiment, even something as tediously simplistic as jealousy only serves to make the chaos in his mind worse. Sherlock comes to an abrupt stop to flick on the cold water faucet and splash some on his face. 

The man he sees in the mirror is not someone he remembers from his earlier years. A man who has a sister, a sister he has no recollection of. A man who feels, feels so intensely that he can barely think straight. A man whose mere presence is a threat to the person who causes all these feelings in the first place. 

He needs to put an end to this game. 

No more Moriarty – John will be safe then. John and his unborn child. 

Sherlock has plotted five different escape routes before the shower has warmed sufficiently, has chosen the best one before slipping into his clothes, has determined the most likely location of the aforementioned armoury before his fingers ever close around the door handle. 

And yet he can’t go through with his plan.

Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut against the heels of his palms. The pressure on his chest consists exclusively of sentiment. There has to be a strand of logic to this, just a sliver… 

The blend of agony and fury on John’s face when Sherlock revealed himself in that restaurant is something he will never, ever forget. 

Dismantling Moriarty's network bore less risk to his own survival than going up against the criminal himself for one final confrontation. 

Leaving now, without so much as a goodbye, would be inhumanly cruel. 

Logic. There. Obviously Sherlock can’t leave now. 

The estate has a period-typical layout, which makes finding the kitchen not a problem. His steps falter when the sound of conversation reaches his ears. The door must be ajar.

“- father is on the other side of the building,” he hears Sholto say. “Marcus informed me he has retired. He’ll only speak with his nurse for the rest of the night. He won’t bother us.”

“Not in person, you mean.” John’s tone is off, somehow. 

“Indeed.”

Even with the conclusion that Sholto senior is still alive and being cared for on the premises, Sherlock thinks he is missing something. Before the quiet has a chance to truly envelope them, however, Sholto junior chuckles. 

“You might have surpassed me in the number of death threats you receive, John.”

“Always been my ambition.” 

Sholto’s soft laughter echoes through the crack of the door until it trickles off into a pensive pause. “How are you, John?” 

A heavy breath. “I couldn’t say.”

Silence descends. Then Sholto murmurs, “Do you ever wonder… what might have been?” 

John waits a moment before finishing the thought. “If I hadn’t got captured? And then shot?” 

Sholto hums a yes. 

“Sometimes.”

“You wouldn’t have met Sherlock Holmes.” 

John murmurs something that Sherlock doesn’t quite catch but that prompts a “Really?” from Sholto. 

An exhale. Sherlock can see John perfectly in his mind’s eye, has witnessed this first hand: shoulders squared, back straight. 

He never would have imagined what John says next, however. 

“I’d gladly take the bullet again.” 

“I thought you and he weren’t –”

“We’re not. It’s… there’s a woman.” A humourless laugh. “Two, in fact. It’s fine.” 

_A woman? Two?_ Sherlock blinks in the dim light from the star-decked sky falling through the windows. 

“Hm.” Sholto, again. 

“What?”

“I think you shouldn’t be so sure, John. I thought you’d learned your lesson by now.” 

“Well. It’s… it doesn’t matter now. Moriarty is after us. Hardly the time for romance.”

_Romance?_

Chuckling. “You and I remember our first date very differently, then.”

The world holds its breath. 

“Running from the Taliban is hardly a date.”

“You’re still running.”

“Oh, profound.” John’s eye-roll is palpable. 

“But not untrue.” 

“I’m going to be a father.”

“Sherlock Holmes strikes me as a natural with children.”

John huffs; maybe runs a hand through his hair. “He doesn’t want me that way.” 

“You said the same thing about me.” 

“He’s married to his work.”

“Work which you are a vital part of.”

“Stop it, James.”

Anger, denial, longing and a cacophony of other emotions colour John’s tone. Sherlock can’t even begin to make sense of the situation over the blood rushing in his ears despite the implications being abundantly clear. 

“You talk as though you’re a dead man walking, John. What have you got to lose?”

John’s reply has to be non-verbal for Sherlock doesn’t even hear a murmur. His own tongue is in knots; his throat tight. 

_I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for any…_

Barely two sentences, spoken four years ago. The Woman. And a ruse. 

Sherlock’s mind lights up with a flurry of ‘what-if’s and ‘if-only’s, all bringing fulfilment to a fantasy that has accompanied Sherlock for quite some time. 

A door on the other side of the sitting room opens after a rapid knock and an “Enter,” from Sholto, but Sherlock barely registers what the servant says. He should have paid more attention, or he would have had a few minutes to deduce how and why his brother Mycroft is here. 

*

His skin tingles under James’s gaze. John can almost feel the heat of the burning oil fields that made the sky glow and him reckless. Adrenaline spurred him into action that fateful night in Afghanistan – but he knew his actions would be welcomed by his commanding officer; the situation with his straight flatmate is completely different. 

Sholto considers him for another moment, then takes a step forward. John needs to use every ounce of self-control he has to not shirk back. 

“You talk as though you’re a dead man walking, John. What have you got to lose?”

John doesn’t have the words to name the stake involved. ‘Everything’ seems too trivial, Sherlock’s name wouldn’t carry the meaning. So all he does is shrug and fight the bile rising in his throat. James understands, fortunately, always has. His eyes are warm but he doesn’t move closer. John doubts he would have let the man. 

A knock. 

“Enter,” James says after a beat. John turns away from the door to hide his face until he has schooled his features again. 

“Sir.” It’s the butler. “There is a gentleman at the door going by the name of Mycroft Holmes. Do you wish me to let him in?”

“At the _door_?”

“It appears the gentleman found a way to elude the guard, sir. We are looking into the matter.”

It sounds exactly like something the older Holmes would do. John almost giggles, meeting Sholto’s questioning expression before watching him nod at his butler. Butler, Jesus. 

Mycroft, of course, fits into the sitting room like it was built around him. He and James exchange the introductory pleasantries you need to have been raised on to master with the two SIS agents who accompanied the older Holmes stationed outside the kitchen. If it weren’t for Sherlock barging into the situation with a vicious, “What the hell are you doing here, Mycroft?” John might have suffocated. 

All Mycroft does is arch an eyebrow at his brother, unimpressed. 

“How did you find us?” John asks, not looking at Sherlock because he doesn’t trust his facial muscles just yet. 

“Do not take me for a fool, Doctor,” Mycroft sneers. “You’re not exactly a social butterfly these days. The number of friends ready to offer you refuge is limited.” 

The way Mycroft’s voice curls around the word ‘friends’ has John’s stomach in knots. 

“Seeing as Detective Inspector Lestrade is in hospital following what transpired in Catalyst Hall – merely a scrape, I am assured,” Mycroft interjects at John’s startled gasp, “and the Major’s residence is the only place that can be expected to be sufficiently stocked with weaponry; it really was no puzzle at all.”

For several seconds, no one speaks. Mycroft leans on his umbrella in front of the closed door leading to the entrance hall while Sherlock is glaring at him from across the room. James’s eyes flick between them from his position in front of the kitchen table. The expensive piece of furniture serves as a wonderful shield between John and the rest of those present. 

Sherlock is the first to move, reaching into his breast pocket and breaking the tension. He places the picture on the table, then lifts his head to look at his brother. 

“Who is she?”

John has never seen anyone blanch as quickly as Mycroft does in this particular moment. 

“Where did you get this?”

“I found it,” John chimes in, crossing his arms. “On the floor of Sherlock’s room this morning. You know, when you couldn’t be reached.” 

“Who is she?” Sherlock repeats. “And what is her connection to Redbeard?” 

Mycroft’s eyes swivel to John and James. “Please clear the room.” 

“John stays,” Sherlock insists. 

“This is a family matter,” Mycroft gripes. 

“That’s why he stays.” 

John’s head whips to Sherlock, startled in the most wonderful way. 

“I shall take my leave,” Sholto announces. “Please do send for me once you move on to more… practical matters.” 

The last request is mostly directed at John, who nods before narrowing his eyes at the older Holmes again. “Well?” 

Mycroft holds his glare for a moment, then makes his way to the decanter on a side table. He pours three glasses, two of which he places in front of them. He empties the third in one go and promptly refills it. 

The action seems to have stunned Sherlock into speechlessness. 

“She is your sister, isn’t she?” John says. 

Mycroft clears his throat. “Twin sister. My twin.” 

“Where is she now?” 

“Deceased.” 

“Why can’t I remember her?” Sherlock sounds positively wrecked. 

“She died when you were eleven after you hadn’t seen her for a whole year and a half. She spent most of your life away from our home.” 

John tilts his head. “Why?”

“Her genius was of use to the government. She was recruited early. She introduced you to chemistry, Sherlock,” Mycroft adds. “She brought back Redbeard when you were five. A gift.”

“She was working for the government at the age of twelve?” John gapes. “Why weren’t you?”

“I’m afraid my prowess lay elsewhere. My eyes were set on politics around the same time she lost her heart to numbers and formulas.”

“The science of combustion,” Sherlock mutters.

Mycroft inclines his head. “She had surpassed mother’s accomplishments before she hit puberty.” 

“What’s her name?”

“Eurus.” 

John bites his tongue but he needn’t have worried. Both brothers are too deep in thought to notice his amusement at the Holmes family’s naming practices. 

Sherlock clears his throat. “How did she die?”

A shadow darkens Mycroft’s features. John can practically feel the sorrow and guilt radiating off the man. In stark contrast, his voice remains a monotonous stream of words. 

“She needed to go undercover to retrieve certain files from the IRA. I’d just been promoted. They sent me into the field with her. Everything went according to plan until our retreat when an unscheduled patrol passed us by. Eurus excelled at hand-to-hand. You take after her in that regard, brother mine.” 

A sickening sense of foreboding settles in John’s bones. 

“I had to handle one hostile,” Mycroft continues. The barest hint of trembling is seeping into his voice. “One. I had a clear shot and…”

“You froze,” John finishes for him when Mycroft trails off. 

“I froze,” he echoes, sounding hollow. “It would have been my first kill.”

Sherlock stares. “You detest legwork.”

“I do.”

“You weren’t slow to learn Serbian,” Sherlock continues, unblinking through his rapid deductions. “You were afraid.”

Mycroft swallows. “Your extraction was a success.”

“Redbeard’s death. He wasn’t put down, was he?”

“What do you remember?”

“You. Telling me he’s gone.”

Mycroft inclines his head but doesn’t speak. 

“Third party involvement?” John infers. “But who’d want to kill your dog?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak but stops himself and starts anew, eyes growing clouded. “Moriarty knows; more than what Riley printed. The eviscerated dog, the code word for the sniper…”

John holds his breath. He knows that expression, that tone – Sherlock is on the trail of something big. This time, however, there is no rush of happiness, no cocky smirk, no arrogant declaration of how obvious it has all been. This time, the colour drains from Sherlock’s face as his wide eyes snap to his brother. 

“That’s why you only brought two agents here,” Sherlock hisses. “That’s why you left Anthea behind.”

Mycroft averts his gaze. John watches with bated breath as the older Holmes picks up his brother’s tumbler from the table. Its contents suffer a similar fate to his previous two glasses while Sherlock continues in a vicious tone. 

“Oh, brother dear, I see it now, it all makes perfect sense: your fear of Magnussen, your absence during October, why you sat by and let an assassin infiltrate John’s life –”

“What,” John growls, turning to Mycroft. “You said you didn’t know. At the hospital – you said you’d have warned me if you had. But you lied, didn’t you?”

“I see you are unsurprised I kept tabs on you.”

John glares, clenching his hands into fists. 

Mycroft raises his fingers to massage his temples. “My hands were tied.”

“Oh, and I bet Moriarty just loved selecting the rope,” Sherlock spits. 

“Moriarty?” John rears back. “You’re – _no_.”

“No, John,” Sherlock says, tipping his chin up, expression even grimmer than his voice. “He’s not in bed with Moriarty. He’s heeling at the foot end of it, waiting for orders.”

“I used to,” Mycroft corrects with a vengeance. “It’s _over_.”

Pieces of the puzzle John has been poring over slot together with a force that makes John’s knees sway. 

Mycroft did stay way from Baker Street to protect his brother. Anthea’s newfound authority is by design – Mycroft knows he won’t be able to continue his work should this be resolved, so he has been priming her to take over his job and laying the groundwork for an easy transition. 

“Chess,” he spits. “That’s what you meant, hm? Playing chess with Moriarty?”

Sherlock snorts. “Chess would require him to have a modicum of control.”

“But you’re powerless,” John says, clarity dawning on him. “That’s the ‘truth of the matter’, right? How long’s this been going on?” 

Mycroft’s lips have formed a thin line that doesn’t seem inclined to move any time soon while anger is loosening John’s tongue. 

“Since Bart’s? No, must’ve been before that – after the pool?” John catches the minute twitch of Mycroft’s throat. “Before? How long before?”

“IRA.” 

John whips around to Sherlock, who repeats the acronym. Mycroft’s mask slips further, guilt welling up again through the cracks. 

“Sherlock,” John says. It conveys the ‘You better fill me in right now’ sufficiently.

“Janine and Moriarty shared a foster family in Ireland, John. My sister’s final mission brought her into contact with the IRA. I’m unclear on the exact timeline of Jim’s criminal activity or when he began dealing with terrorists after his move to Britain, yet the evidence suggests the files Eurus and Mycroft retrieved derailed whatever scheme he had concocted.”

“Unfortunately so.” Mycroft shifts his weight, his unease obvious even to John. “That first time we crossed paths was unintentional, but it ensured Moriarty’s continued interest in my career.”

“Why’s he so obsessed with Sherlock then?” John could answer the question for himself, but projecting one’s feelings onto a criminal genius might not be the best thing to do, he reckons. 

“We’re two sides of the same coin,” Sherlock says. “Or at least, that’s what he believes.” 

“But wouldn’t that be Mycroft?” 

The older Holmes gives the faintest smirk. “You of all people must have realised, John, that Moriarty’s preoccupation with my brother escapes the confines of logic. If someone were to kill my brother right now, I assure you Moriarty’s revenge would make the earth quiver.” 

_You of all people._

John barely dares to breathe, let alone look at Sherlock to see if the man has picked up on the wording. 

There’s an amused glint in Mycroft’s eye – at least that bastard is having fun – when he pulls his hands out of the pockets of his trousers and steps towards the door behind him. John tracks his movements with narrowed eyes until it becomes clear that he is only telling one of his agents to fetch Major Sholto. 

Upon his return, James quickly surveys the room and the subdued atmosphere. 

“It is time for more practical matters, I assume? I checked the armoury; it won’t be the kind of equipment you’re used to, sir,” he tips his head to Mycroft, “but it’ll do the trick. We require a plan first, however.”

“There is no ‘we’.”

Everyone’s attention shifts to Sherlock, even John’s. His best friend’s face is blank – the sight sends a chill down his spine. 

“Care to expand on that, brother mine?”

The line of Sherlock’s shoulders tenses, almost as if he is preparing for battle. “It’s me Moriarty’s after.”

John inhales sharply – _that sanctimonious prick_. 

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighs in the pause before Sherlock’s clarification.

“I’ll be facing him alone.”

Sherlock turns to James, probably to ask about restocking on ammunition, but John steps into his line of sight with clenching hands and a resolute glare.

“No, you won’t.”

“It’s the most logical course of action, John –”

“Screw logic, Sherlock,” he snaps. “Last time you faced him down alone you jumped off a bloody roof. Not another suicide mission, not on my watch.” 

“There’s no need for you to –” Sherlock tries to interrupt, but John doesn’t let him. 

“The two of us against the rest of the world,“ he says with passion. 

Sherlock grinds to a halt, eyes widening. 

“That’s what you said,” John goes on. “Remember?”

Sherlock’s reply is barely a whisper. “I – I do.” 

“Then shut the fuck up about doing this alone, you idiot.”

He almost expects Sherlock to protest, but, with a look softer than anything John has ever seen on him, he holds his tongue. John is unable to look away, even as his pulse speeds up until it’s positively beating out a staccato. 

He might have done something inconceivably daft if James hadn’t cleared his throat. 

“A plan then, gentlemen.”

Licking his lips, John forces himself to look at the other two men in the room. “Well, we’ve, uh, got to find Moriarty. I doubt he’s in the yellow pages?” No one laughs, which John expected, though it looks like Sherlock’s lips twitched at least. He crosses his arms. “Maybe Mary knows where he’s holed up?”

Mycroft is already shaking his head. “She never made it into Moriarty’s inner circles.”

“But you did?” Sherlock challenges, eyes narrowed. 

“No.” A wry smile. “It’s supposed to be lovely – or so I’ve heard.”

Sholto is the first to ask the obvious. “From whom?” 

“Mr Magnussen was rather smug about it. He even is allowed to call him ‘Jim’, if one believes his tales.” 

John tilts his head. “Which you do. So we go after Magnussen.”

That earns a laugh. “Oh, Captain Watson. No threat or amount of pain could make the Napoleon of Blackmail give up so much as a recipe for biscuits. We will have to offer something of equal value.”

“Good thing you’re coming with us then, dear brother,” Sherlock says with one of his less creepy grins. “Well, an untraceable armoured car large enough to hold six passengers would have been showing off otherwise. Care to divulge our destination?” 

Mycroft looks like he bit into a particularly sour lemon. “There is a charity event at the Ritz he will attend.”

Sholto nods. “If we leave within the hour, we should reach the city before it ends.”

“And here I was looking forward to kip on silk bed sheets,” John comments, making Sherlock huff as they make to leave the kitchen in favour of the armoury. 

“Sleep is boring.”

John grins. “I’ll remind you of that once Moriarty’s dead, shall I?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it. Thoughts?
> 
> **[due to real-life circumstances, all my fanfics are officially on hiatus]**


End file.
